Forbidden (13 page)

Was.

“But the story I had heard had been altered—the story about the village being destroyed for harboring this man,” the shopkeeper continued. “This soldier told my friend that the Americano did escape from the prison, badly injured. He
was
hidden in a nearby village and cared for by the people there, even though he was very sick. The SFP searched for him for weeks, and, through no one’s fault, they discovered that he had been taken to this one village along the coast. The people were trying to smuggle him out of the country by boat.”

Cal hadn’t moved once while the old man spoke. He just listened.

“The Special Forces captain ordered all of the villagers into the town square. He lined up all the town officials and their families. He told the villagers that unless the Americano surrendered to them immediately, the village would be burned and their leaders would be killed. But no one said a word. And that was when the Americano came out of hiding.

“He was weak, hardly able to stand, but he would not let these people die for him.” The old man drew in a deep breath. “But the captain ordered the executions and had the village bombed anyway. Even though this man had heroically given himself up, dozens of innocents were killed that day.”

“And the Americano?” Kayla asked quietly, tears in her eyes.

“He was taken back to the prison and beaten. But he was a very strong man, and it wasn’t until just a few weeks ago that he finally died. That was when our soldier acquired this ring.”

Cal picked up the ring. “How much do we owe you?”

The old man hesitated. “I paid fifty dollars, American, for it.”

“Thank you,” Cal said. He took two crisp hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. “For all your trouble.”

But the shopkeeper was shaking his head. “The information I have given you is free. And if I can think of anything else that might be helpful—”

“Do you know the name of the SFP captain?” Cal asked.

“He is known as El Capitán Muerte by the people—Captain Death,” the man replied. “He is an unassuming man, a gentleman—he doesn’t look like the monster that he is. It is said he never wears the SFP uniform, and that he drives a car that cost more than the wages fifty families earn in five years’ time.”

Kayla looked at Cal, and saw that there was murder in his eyes.

“His name,” the shopkeeper told them, “is Tomás Vásquez.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the hotel,” Cal told Kayla. “You’re packing your things and I’m putting you on the next flight out of here.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“No, I didn’t. I got caught in a bizarre time warp and heard the voice of some delusional Neanderthal who thought that just because he was bigger, he could order me around.”

“Kayla, dammit, I don’t have time for your crap—”

“When will you have time for my crap?” She put her hands on her hips and stepped in front of him, forcing him either to stop walking or step around her. He stepped around her. She chased him. “Will you have time for my crap after you do something stupid, like confront Vásquez and get yourself thrown in the very same prison Liam died in? Or maybe you’ll have time after you’re beaten into a pulp and killed too.”

She was furious, her breasts rising and falling under her T-shirt as she struggled to keep up with him.

Sweet Lord, what was wrong with him? Liam was dead. Cal was almost one hundred percent certain that his little brother was dead, yet here
he
was, still alive and still lusting after Kayla. Dammit, couldn’t he shut these feelings down for even a few minutes? For a moment of silence, a moment of respect for a man who had forsaken his own safety, a brave man who had died in an attempt to save others’ lives…

He couldn’t do it, not even for a few minutes.

All he wanted was to bury himself inside this woman, lose himself and all his pain in her sweet warmth.

With a groan he reached for her, and she went willingly into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close, so close it took his breath away.

“Please, let’s get on a plane
together
,” Kayla whispered in his ear. “If Liam’s dead, Cal, there’s nothing more we can do for him.”

“
If
Liam’s dead.”

She pulled back slightly to look up at him. “You don’t still think…”

“God help me, I don’t know
what
I think.”

Kayla was gazing at him, her greenish eyes full of compassion and sorrow. “He’s dead, Cal. That ring was
cut
from his body, for God’s sake! Please, let’s go home.”

He pushed her hair back from her face, needing to touch her, needing her to understand. “It’s all hearsay—stories, rumors, innuendo. There’s no real proof.”

“The ring—”

“Yeah, we have Liam’s ring. It could have been…cut from his hand while he was still alive. Hell, maybe the blood on it proves that it was. Would he have bled if he were already dead?”

Her eyes were wide. “I don’t know.”

“I need proof,” he repeated, “or there’s always going to be a part of me wondering if maybe I went and gave up too soon.”

She touched him, as if she had the same ache inside that he did. She ran her hands across his shoulders, placed her palms against his chest, touched the rough side of his face where his late-afternoon beard was already coming in. When she finally met his eyes, hers had filled with tears. “Please, Cal, I don’t want to lose you too. Don’t you understand the kind of people we’re dealing with? A man who could order the execution of innocent children…?”

“Ah, there you are! Just the Americans I was looking for.”

Cal could see a sudden flash of fear in Kayla’s eyes, and they both turned to see Tomás Vásquez’s expensive car in the road alongside them.

“Of course, there are so very few Americans on the island these days, so that made my job a little bit easier.”

Vásquez had opened his door and stood gazing at them over the car roof.

“However, I am afraid that this afternoon I am the bearer of bad news,” he continued, his friendly smile turning into an expression of solemnity.

Cal released Kayla, stepping very slightly in front of her. He could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck. How could such a terrible killer—someone nicknamed Captain Death—appear so gentle and innocuous? It didn’t make sense. But it didn’t have to make sense. In all likelihood, this was the man who, directly or indirectly, was responsible for imprisoning and torturing and killing his brother—along with hundreds of other innocent people.

He felt Kayla grip his hand, clasping his fingers and squeezing slightly.

He read her silent message loud and clear: Don’t go ballistic and kill this son of a bitch right where he was standing. Good plan. He wouldn’t. At least not yet.

“I have news of your brother,” Vásquez told him. He gestured to his car. “Come. Get in. We’ll talk.”

Kayla was right. They had to leave San Salustiano right away. But Cal would come back. He would charter a seaplane out of Puerto Rico and fly in at night, under cover of darkness. He’d find the San Salustiano rebels, talk to that girl with the big machine gun. She knew more than she had told them. He would find the proof that he needed to allow himself at least to sleep at night….

“We’d rather walk, thanks.”

Vásquez shrugged and locked his car door. “That’s fine too.”

Well, that ruled out the possibility of Vásquez luring them to their untimely death. If he’d wanted to do that, he’d have insisted they get into his car, wouldn’t he? It would have taken very little effort on his part, considering that the man was armed. He was wearing an expensive-looking sport coat, and it had opened slightly to reveal a small but deadly looking gun ensconced in a leather shoulder holster.

“I regret to have to inform you,” Vásquez said, looking thoroughly regretful as he joined them on the sidewalk, “that William Bartlett is indeed dead. I apologize for not being able to provide a more private place to tell you this, and for not delivering this news more tactfully, but I’ve found it best in this kind of situation not to delay. There is no easy way to share such tragic information.”

Once again Cal found himself gripping Kayla’s hand. “How did he die?” he asked, marveling at this man’s effortless ability to sound so sincerely concerned.

Kayla was staring down at the street, as if afraid if she looked directly at him, Vásquez would read the fear and revulsion in her eyes.

“According to my investigation, it seems that a rescue mission was attempted—but the rebels had been forewarned. Thirty-eight of our soldiers were killed that day, along with your brother and several other hostages, including a cabinet minister’s twelve-year-old daughter.”

Vásquez reached inside his jacket, and Cal tensed, knowing that a gun was in there. But the man only pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“Your brother’s death certificate.” He handed the paper to Cal.

Cal looked down at the wrinkled paper he was holding in his hands. Liam’s death certificate. This was the proof he’d been looking for. He opened it slowly, aware that the photo had been cut from Liam’s passport and stapled to the document.

The words were all in Spanish, but Kayla was there, reading over his shoulder. She translated quietly. “Name: William Bartlett. Identification: Positive, from photo. Cause of death—” She broke off, and when Cal looked up, he saw she was crying. She took a deep breath. “Cause of death: Gunshot wounds. Date of death—” She looked up at Cal, wiping her tears from her face. “The ink’s smudged—the date’s been obscured.”

“It was October,” Vásquez told them. “Four months after the bus was bombed.”

“Was it?” Kayla asked, and Cal knew what she was thinking. They’d just heard a story that had Liam alive up until just a few weeks ago. Was that why the date was smudged—because the story Váquez was telling was just another lie?

The only similarity between the two tales was that Liam was dead.

“This document was found in a box of papers due to be destroyed,” Vásquez claimed. “I was lucky to find anything at all.”

Cal nodded, gazing at the doctor’s official signature, at the seal that had been stamped onto the thick paper.

Liam’s death certificate.

He wished he were like Kayla. He wished he could cry—wished he could express his grief so openly and quickly. But he couldn’t. It ran too deep, and once he brought it to the surface, he might never be able to keep it from destroying him.

He looked up at Vásquez. “What happened to his body?”

“That I don’t know. I suspect it was left, along with the other dead and injured when the San Salustiano soldiers were forced to retreat. Apparently that area of the jungle wasn’t recaptured by our troops for nearly two months. When our men went in, all the bodies were gone. It’s believed that the rebels buried them—your brother included.”

“How do I find out for certain?”

“You don’t,” Vásquez told him. “You take your lady friend back to your hotel and catch the next flight off the island. Your brother was killed by the rebels, Mr. Bartlett. Don’t risk the same fate yourselves.”

         
12
         

Liam was dead.

Kayla looked at Cal, and from the bleakness in his eyes she knew that the very last of his hope was gone.

Liam was really dead.

Kayla had called the airport from a pay phone, but the next available flight off the island—to anywhere—wasn’t until the next afternoon.

It seemed too long to wait, but even the chartered flights were booked until the evening. And the tiny airport shut down tight at dusk. The best they could do was book two seats on the next flight out—and hope that the violence that was about to boil over remained at a slow simmer for just a little bit longer. There was one small charter service that suggested they arrive at the airport at five
A.M.
, in anticipation that there might be some suddenly available seats on its six
A.M.
flight. It would be well worth the early wake-up call if they could get off the island that quickly.

They’d stayed downtown for most of the afternoon, walking and sitting by the harbor, watching the boats with their brightly colored sails. Cal was so quiet, Kayla felt as if she were totally alone. She gazed out at the water, letting herself grieve for Liam—for his wonderful, vibrant, brilliant life cut much too short, for all that he endured between the unknown number of months she’d been told about the bus explosion and the date that he truly did die.

Cal didn’t say more than seven words to her all afternoon. He didn’t touch much of his dinner either, and Kayla ached to say something, to
do
something, anything that would give him some small comfort.

She felt responsible. He’d been dealing with Liam’s death. He’d lived with it for more than two years. But then she had to come along and give him false hope. Make him believe.

But Liam really was dead. All she’d given Cal was a fresh dose of pain and grief.

It was dusk by the time they returned to the hotel, and when they got there, the entire hotel was dark.

The concierge led them to their rooms with a flashlight, assuring them the problem with the electricity would quickly be taken care of. A major power line had come down as the result of an accident, but work was being done even as they spoke. Until the situation was rectified, the maid had brought candles and matches to their rooms, and did they want him to light those candles for them?

Cal just opened the door to his room and went inside as if he hadn’t heard a single word spoken. Kayla told the man that they’d be fine, and followed Cal inside, wondering if everything she said to him would go as completely unnoticed.

She set her purse down on the desk, turning to face him.

“Maybe it would help if we talked,” she started to say, but he cut her off.

“I want to be alone.”

Go away. He didn’t want her or need her. He didn’t say those exact words, but his message couldn’t have been more clear.

Kayla started toward the door to the balcony that connected their two rooms, but hesitated, not wanting to leave him there, alone in the dark.

Maybe he would use the opportunity to release some of his pain and grief.

But she knew he wouldn’t. She knew this man pretty well, she realized suddenly. And just as sure as she knew her own heart was beating, she knew Cal was sending himself back into an emotional deep freeze—and this time he might never come out.

“Cal, God, I’m so sorry…”

He was silent. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but she didn’t need to.

“I really thought we were going to find him,” she said. “And I know you did too….”

Nothing. Still nothing. But maybe he was crying. Maybe he wasn’t speaking because he couldn’t speak.

She could see the candles and matches that had been left in the room by the light from the last few streaks of the sunset that lingered in the sky. She struck a match, and the soft glow of light filled the room.

Cal sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes dry, his expression still so bleak.

She
was the one who was crying.

“Please,” he said, his voice devoid of all expression. He didn’t even look up to meet her gaze. “Just go.”

Kayla hesitated, lingering at the open door to the balcony. Cal had to look away. She was backlit by the red-orange sky with the candlelight caressing her face, her eyes filled with tears of compassion and remorse. She looked so beautiful, so
alive
.

He was still holding Liam’s death certificate in his hands, and he looked down at it. He felt a wave of fury and sorrow churning inside him, rising like bile, and he forced it back down, refusing to let himself feel.

If he didn’t let himself feel anything, then he wouldn’t have to deal with the grief that was threatening to slice him in half. He wouldn’t have to suffer guilt every time he so much as met Kayla’s eyes—guilt over lusting for the woman his brother had loved, guilt over the way she could make him smile and even laugh, guilt over the way just looking at her could make him feel better.

And he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he was alive, and Liam wasn’t.

He sensed more than heard Kayla’s movement as she finally went out the door.

He found himself listening for her, listening to the sound of her opening the sliding door that led into her room. He heard her step inside and—

She screamed.

It was a scream of pure terror, and it was cut short as if forcibly stopped. Cal’s heart damn near quit beating and his blood froze in his veins.

He was off the bed like a shot, even before he realized she had been calling his name. He burst through the door to the balcony and into her room.

She hadn’t lit a candle—she hadn’t had time—but he could make out two shadows in her room.

Two
shadows.

Sweet Lord, a man was in the room, and he was trying to hurt Kayla.

Cal couldn’t tell if the man’s hands were around Kayla’s mouth or her throat. All he knew for certain was that no one—
no
one—was going to hurt this girl as long as there was any breath left in his body.

He grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt, dragging him away from Kayla, the force of his attack pushing her down onto the floor. She scrambled away as he slammed his fist into the intruder’s face, sending him reeling.

The man hit the wall with enough force to knock a framed picture free, then bolted for the balcony door.

Cal gave chase, but whoever the intruder was, he’d been quick. When Cal got to the railing of the balcony, he was already on the ground, running through the darkness, disappearing around the corner of the darkened building.

Kayla.

Cal moved quickly back into her room.

She was still on the floor, sitting in the darkness with her knees up and her back against the wall. Cal knelt beside her, pulling her forward into the moonlight so he could see her face, see that she was all right.

She was trembling, but he more than half expected her to give him a shaky smile.

She didn’t.

She looked shell-shocked, and she pulled away from him in fear, as if she didn’t even recognize who he was. “Don’t touch me!”

“Kayla, did he hurt you?” Cal asked her, a new blade of fear stabbing into him.

She didn’t hear him. He might as well have been talking to the wall.

Sweet Jesus, when he’d heard her scream, he’d damn near gone into cardiac arrest. And now that the danger was past, now that his heart was beating again, it was sending an undeniable message with every pulsing surge of blood through his veins.

He would have died if anything had happened to Kayla. He would have fought to the death to keep her safe. He loved her—more than life itself.

The realization took his breath away, but he had no time to think about himself—he had to make sure she hadn’t been badly hurt.

There were candles in her room too, and he lit them all, carrying one as he knelt back down next to her.

Her head was down, her arms tightly around her knees. But as he touched her gently on her shoulder, her head snapped up, and she began to scramble away from him.

Cal held the candle up and it lit his face. “Kayla, darlin’, it’s
me
.”

She froze, gazing up at him. Something in her eyes shifted and focused, and he could see her sudden recognition. “Cal.” She burst into tears and reached for him.

He barely had time to set down the candle before pulling her into his arms. She almost knocked him over with the fierceness of her embrace. He held her just as tightly, aware that he was shaking too.

As sobs shook her body, he reassured himself that she was all right. He touched her hair, her back, the softness of her arms, loving her with a desperation that made his chest ache. He felt like crying too—for Liam, who was no longer able to experience this odd, wonderful, uncomfortably alive sensation of having his heart in his throat.

Kayla’s tears were slowing now, her breathing no longer quite so ragged, but still she held on to him tightly.

“I knew you would come,” she said softly, finally lifting her head to look up at him. “I was just afraid you wouldn’t hear me calling—”

“I heard you. Are you all right?”

Kayla wiped her eyes as she nodded. “All he kept saying was ‘Silence! Be quiet!’ He was trying to cover my mouth. And I—I just kept remembering…”

He pulled her closer. “I’m sorry.”

She drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I’m definitely going to learn karate. I’ve wanted to for a while, but I kept putting it off and…Now I’m
definitely
signing up for a class as soon as I get home.”

Home. They were heading home to the United States tomorrow, because they’d found proof that Liam was dead.

Cal closed his eyes against the sudden rush of pain.

Kayla gently touched his face. “Are
you
all right?”

He shook his head, sitting down on the floor next to her, his arm still around her shoulders. He couldn’t let go of her. He didn’t
want
to let go. “No.”

“Liam’s really dead,” she said softly.

Cal felt his eyes fill with tears as he nodded. “Yeah. I think that he is.”

He could feel her watching him, and he turned away.

Kayla could feel a fresh flood of tears fill her own eyes as she touched the side of his face again. His expression was like granite, unmoving and solid. “Cal, it’s okay if you cry. You have every right to be angry. You have every right to grieve. Please, don’t keep it inside, where it’ll keep you from living too.”

“I remember when he was about twelve years old, a tornado warning came in over the radio,” Cal said, staring out the open window at the moon slowly rising above the hills, his softly accented voice deceptively quiet. “He must’ve been home from school because he had a cold or something, and he was just hanging out, listening to a baseball game while I mended fences with the hired hands.”

Kayla leaned her cheek against the broadness of his shoulder, wishing he would look at her, wishing he would let her share his pain.

“The sky was that telltale grayish-green that it gets when a twister’s coming.” He paused, finally turning toward her, finally meeting her gaze. “The kid knew he had to get down into the basement, to the little room that we use as a storm cellar, but he got it into his head that if he saddled up his horse, he’d be able to drive the herd up toward the back pastures and give ’em room to run from the danger of the storm. He could see ’em from the house, bunched up by the gate. The cattle knew damn well that bad weather was coming—they were nervous as hell—but the gate was closed.

“Liam ran out to the barn, but his horse was too spooked by the storm to let him saddle up. So he went bareback, charging out across that field, over to the gate. He got it opened, and nearly got trampled for his trouble.”

He was still holding her gaze, as if it were a lifeline as he tried to blink back the tears that were threatening to overflow.

“That was about the time that twister came roaring through. It took out a couple of fences, but missed the house and barn. It missed Liam too, thank God, although he swears it passed right over him when he took cover in a ditch.

“I got home about five minutes later, and of course I found the storm cellar empty, and no sign of the kid.”