The Soldier and the Baby Page 17

For a moment Reilly considered pretending he didn’t speak Spanish, but he knew that probably wouldn’t fly. Instead it might piss him off even motor. It didn’t help, he thought grimly, that he was shirtless and unarmed. And that he was scared to death that Carlie might take it into her head to follow him.

  “We passed your men about ten miles down the mountain,” he said with deceptive calm. “How come you’re alone?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Reilly,” Morales said pleasantly. “I can handle an ex-soldier like you and the little nun without any help.”

  Hearing his name didn’t help Reilly’s pessimism; neither did the fact that Morales knew who Carlie was. “I assume Dutchy was the one who filled you in on those little details.”

  “Dutchy was a very useful man when his head wasn’t clouded with liquor.”

  “Then why did you kill him?”

  Morales shrugged. “My wretched temper,” he said with a disarming smile. “When I heard he’d let you get away, I’m afraid I reacted…hastily. Where’s your little friend, the good sister?”

  He didn’t bother denying Carlie’s identity. “I left her downriver. She was heading for La Luz—she planned to get to Brazil and rejoin her convent.”

  Morales’s smile broadened, exposing blackened teeth. He was an ugly man, with a pitted face, a short, stocky body and dark, tiny eyes radiating malice. “No,” he said. “You just came from her—I know the look. You have scratch marks on your chest. The good sister must be a real tigress. Where is she?”

  “I told you-”

  “I suggest you don’t anger me,” Morales said carefully. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a nun, and you would find it very unpleasant if you had to watch. Women tend to scream so loudly. I like being the first, but then, she’s prettier than most of the nuns I’ve raped. Tell me, Reilly, was she willing?”

  “She’s on her way to La Luz,” he said again.

  “And did she take el presidente’s grandson with her?”

  He didn’t even flinch. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “You impress me,” Morales murmured, surveying him up and down. “Cool as a cucumber, don’t they say? I will admit, part of the reason I killed Dutchy was that I was angry with myself. I didn’t realize you were attempting to ferry the last Mendino out of San Pablo when you arrived at Dos Libros. If I had, I could have saved myself some time and trouble. And my men would have enjoyed Sister Maria Carlos.” He shrugged, and the gun never wavered. “They will get their chance, though. They’re off looking for you. I don’t know how you missed passing them when you made your way up here.”

  “I know how to keep a low profile.”

  Morales frowned. “My men are the best.”

  “They’re not good enough.”

  Morales considered the notion, the his eyes as small and hard and black as death. “Apparently not. Get on your knees.”

  Reilly didn’t move. “I don’t think so. Why?” He knew perfectly well why but he was stalling for time.

  “Because you’re too damned tall, like most norteamericanos. If you want to die fast and painlessly you’ll get on your knees so that I can reach the back of your neck.”

  Reilly just looked down at the little pip-squeak. “I’m not going to die on my knees,” he said calmly.

  “I can shoot you in the eye, then. It’ll take longer, but you’ll be just as dead.” Morales cocked the pistol. “Where are the nun and the baby?”

  “There’s no baby, and I left the nun just outside of Dos Libros,” he said stubbornly. There was a shadow moving behind the burned-out shell of the nearby building, and he hoped to God it was something bigger than a rat. A jaguar, perhaps, looking for a tasty military treat. Though if he got a sniff of Morales’s pungent odor he might have the good sense to run in the opposite direction.

  There was nothing Reilly could do. Morales was too far away from him; if he dove for the general he’d have a bullet in his brain before his feet left the ground. It just went to prove what he’d always known—once he started thinking below the belt he was doomed.

  Lust confused a man, at least temporarily. Love damn well killed him. Facing his own imminent death, he considered the possibility of love, something he’d managed to avoid in all his sexual relationships. It seemed to have crept up on him when he wasn’t looking.

  “I’ll have to kill the nun as well, of course,” Morales continued. “Though chances are my men will see to that—they’re not very civilized, and few whores have survived their combined attentions. But there’s the question of the baby. I can’t afford to let a member of the Mendino family survive. He could disrupt my own plans. Should I feed him to the crocodiles? Or perhaps just leave him here, alone, for the jungle cats to find?”

  “There is no baby,” Reilly said stubbornly.

  Morales fired the gun.

  It hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him to the ground. Morales moved to stand over him, an ugly smile on his ugly face. “I’ll go for the knees next,” he said. “I can keep it up for quite a while, until you tell me what I want to know. I’m certain you know I’m enjoying this, and I can be very patient. It’s up to you. You can deprive me of my fun and make it easier on yourself. Or we’ll do it my way.”

  “There is no baby.”

  Morales cocked the pistol again and aimed it at Reilly’s zipper. “Then again, there are other places we can start.”

  Reilly didn’t flinch. “There is no baby,” he said again.

  And in the distance, floating toward them from the hidden pickup truck, came the unmistakable sound of a baby crying.

  Morales jerked his head around, momentarily startled, though the gun never wavered. Reilly coiled his muscles, ready to kick at him, when the figure emerged from the shadows. Carlie.

  Morales whirled around, but he wasn’t fast enough. She had a huge section of burnt timber in her hand, and she sent it crashing down against his head like some kind of mythic warrior queen.

  The man went down like a felled tree, and the gun scattered in the dust of the deserted village. Morales lay still, dazed, panting, as Carlie stood over him, her face

  Reilly started to rise, then stopped as he watched her determined expression as she watch the general try to roll over. She crossed herself, muttering something, and whacked him again. This time Morales stayed down.

  She looked across his fallen body to Reilly, to the blood streaming down his arm, soaking into his shirt, a slightly dazed expression on her face, and he half expected her to faint.

  She didn’t. “Have you got a first-aid kit?” she demanded in a surprisingly sturdy voice. “I can take care of that for you.”

  He shook his head, wondering if he’d imagined the past few minutes. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he said, struggling to his feet, the blood running down his arm and dripping onto the hard-packed earth..

  “I know that,” she said. “I’ve had medical training—I’ve dealt with far worse.”

  He believed her. At that moment he believed her capable of anything.

  “In the plane,” he said. “It’s just beyond the end of the street.”

  Her eyes closed for just a moment of pain. “Near the graveyard,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, and he could see the visible effort it cost her. She looked down at Morales’s comatose figure. “Is he alone?”

  “For now. His men will be here soon enough.”

  “Then we’d better get out of here, hadn’t we?”

  “I’ll get the baby.”

  “You’re wounded....”

  “As you said, it’s just a flesh wound,” Reilly said. “You’ve seen worse, I’ve had worse. I’ll get the kid. Keep an eye on Morales. If he moves, mash him again. Though I expect I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “No,” she said. “You don’t.”

  * * *

  She watched him go, steeling herself not to panic at the sight of his blood. She knew it was only
a slight wound, but the sight of it still tore at her. This wasn’t a stranger’s blood, a stranger’s gunshot wound. It was Reilly.

  He disappeared into the greenery, and a moment later Timothy’s howling stopped. He was a good man, Carlie thought. A good father. He was just what the baby needed.

  She looked down at the evil creature lying in the dust. She hadn’t killed him, though she almost wished she had. It hadn’t been him that day, nine years ago, but he was just like those other men who lived on blood and killing.

  She lifted her head and looked down the abandoned street. It looked so different, and yet the same. The houses were burned to the ground, and the jungle was encroaching. No one lived here, no one had come to take over the abandoned lands. The place was haunted. Her parents had died here, scores of good people died as well. For a long time she felt as if he had died.

  Until Reilly had barged into her life.

  She knew where the cemetery was. Where the plane would be waiting. Down at the end of that narrow road.

  She was still barefoot, as she had been most of the two years that she’d lived there. The dust caked her feet, and she remembered the blood that had pooled there. She looked ahead, down toward the plane, and saw that she wasn’t alone.

  They were there, all of them. The ghosts of Puente del Norte, watching her.

  For one brief moment she wanted to run away and hide, back to that secluded spot where she’d huddled behind a tree and tried to blot out the screams. The place where they’d found her, days later, numb with shock and horror.

  But she held her ground. There was nothing to be frightened of. There was her best friend, Maria, smiling at her, red ribbons in her thick black hair, a fiesta dress swirling around her bare ankles. And Maria’s parents, Amana, who’d been a second mother to her, and Carlos, the patriarch of the village, the stern, strong man who’d been the first to die.

  They looked happy to see her. Smiling at her, waving to her as she started down the empty road.

  Her parents were there, as well. Slightly distracted, as they always had been, more concerned with the well-being of mankind than the well-being of one small child, they nevertheless looked at her with love and pride.

  It ’s not your fault, they said with their eyes. We’re glad you survived. That you lived. You live for all of us. Forever.

  She walked. Past friends and family, the old medicine man, the babies, the children and the ancients. Past their smiles and nods and love. And when she reached the end of the village path, and there were no more ghosts, she turned to look at them.

  They were fading now, almost into nothingness, and she realized she was letting them go. At last.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered, the word no more than a breath of sound..

  Goodbye, they called to her. And they were gone.

  * * *

  Reilly’s shoulder hurt like bloody hell. He’d flown one-armed before, in shock, and he’d managed to land the plane safely. He had no doubt whatsoever he could do it again, particularly since Carlie had managed to bandage the flesh wound with surprising dexterity.

  He couldn’t take any pain pills, though, and for that he was grateful. The constant throbbing in his shoulder kept him alert through the long hours of night flight, and it helped keep his mind off Carlie, asleep beside him.

  But nothing could keep him distracted forever. Not when she was so close, her newly tanned legs stretched out beside his in the small cockpit. She’d be covering up those legs soon enough, draping them in long robes. It was wrong, he thought. Wrong that those beautiful legs would be covered. Wrong that her maternal love would be stifled. Wrong that she’d never lie in a man’s arms again.

  And most of all, wrong that she’d never be in his arms again.

  He was flying into Hobby Airport in Texas, the closest, safest place for them to land. Wait Morrissey would be seeing to the paperwork, getting them cleared through customs, arranging for a proper birth certificate for his grandson. Would he mind not having a daughter-in-law? Probably not—it made the balance of power simpler. And Wait Morrissey was definitely into power.

  He glanced over at Carlie. She was dozing, the lights from the instrument panel reflecting on her pale face. She looked tired and infinitely sad. He probably looked like hell himself.

  But the baby sleeping in her arms appeared peaceful and healthy. He looked as if he’d gained weight over the past few days, while they’d fought for their lives. Kids were resilient, he’d always been told. Well, Timothy Morrissey was proof of it.

  He was going to miss him. It was an odd notion—he loved his nieces and nephews, but he’d never felt the particular lack in his own life. He did now. The past four days, with the three of them forced together into their own nuclear family, had had a disturbing effect on him. All his carefully formed ideas about who and what he was, and what he wanted in this life, had been shot to hell.

  He’d do the right thing, of course. He’d give Timothy to his wealthy, powerful grandparents, he’d send Carlie back to the safety of her convent and he’d go home to Montana, back to his mountaintop, alone. At peace.

  Like hell. Peace wasn’t going to have anything to do with it. It was going to be utter hell for the next few weeks. Maybe even a month or two. But sooner or later he’d forget her. Forget the kid. Get on with his life.

  It was a good thing he’d already gotten out of this game. He could have killed them all, thinking with his hormones instead of his brain. He hadn’t expected Morales to have separated from his men, but survival depended on expecting the unexpected. If it hadn’t been for Carlie he’d be lying in a pool of his own blood, his extremities shot away. And God knows what would have happened to Carlie and the baby.

  He shuddered, unable to help himself. He was too damned vulnerable, and he hated it. He needed to get rid of them, as soon as he could, and maybe then he’d return to normal.

  Wait Morrissey had already done his part. It was three in the morning when Reilly approached Hobby Airport, and all it required to get landing clearance was Morrissey’s name. Everything was taken care of, Major Reilly. Even hotel rooms.

  Carlie barely roused when they landed. She took her return to her native soil with an odd diffidence, following silently behind him, the baby clasped in her arms.

  Morrissey had booked them into a two-bedroom suite with all the amenities. It was past five and already growing light when Carlie settled the baby down in the portable crib. And then she looked over at Reilly, standing in the bedroom door.

  “You need to get that shoulder looked at,” she said.

  “Why? You did a good enough job. I’ll have someone take a glance at it when I get back to Montana.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  “Yes.”

  The silence was taut, nervous. “Do you want anything to eat?” he asked suddenly. “I was going to call room service.”

  She shook her head. “I think I’ll just take a shower and sleep. When are we taking Timothy to his grandparents?”

  “Wait Morrissey is coming here to get him. I have no doubt that someone informed him the moment our plane landed. We’ll see him late this afternoon, I believe.”

  Her face looked stricken. “What about his grandmother? I wanted to see where he’d be living, I wanted...”

  “He’ll be fine, Carlie.”

  She took a deep, steadying breath. “Of course he will.”

  He didn’t move. “Are you all right?” he asked abruptly.

  She jerked her head up, and there was a faint wash of color on her pale face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  It was a challenge, but cowardice was one crime he had yet to commit. “You lost your virginity a few hours ago,” he said baldly. “I wondered if you were feeling all right.”

  “Just peachy.”

  There was nothing he could say. She’d pulled a wall around herself, a brittle defense he could probably smash if he cared to. He didn’t. She needed all the protection she could get. Particularly since he was about
to withdraw his own.

  “All right,” he said, backing out of the room. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes,” she said. But it sounded like goodbye.

  It had been so long, Carlie thought. She wasn’t used to this place. To the cleanliness, the elegance, the sheer size of everything. The bathroom was larger than some houses in San Pablo, and it came equipped with enough towels for a family of four and a basket full of little bottles of sweet-smelling soaps and lotions.

  The shower had endless hot water. A good thing, because she stood in there letting the years, the pain, the sorrow wash away from her, she stood until she almost fell asleep, with the water sluicing over her, washing San Pablo, washing the blood, washing the sex away.

  She had sinned in so many, many ways. She had hit a man, twice, instead of turning the other cheek. For all she knew he might be dead, and even worse than committing that crime, she didn’t regret it.

  She was awash with covetousness. She didn’t want this luxury surrounding her, but she wanted warm showers and shampoo. She wanted a comfortable bed and enough food.

  She had lied, to Reilly, and to herself. She had lied about who she was, she had lied about what she wanted.

  She had sinned. She had lain with a man, she had kissed him and she had made love with him, and she wasn’t sorry. She wasn’t shamed, or repentant. She was defiantly, gloriously glad she had done it, and she was half-crazy with the burning desire to do it again. And again. And again.

  It would be a mistake, she reminded herself when she finally turned off the still-warm shower. He didn’t care about her, and he was about to abandon her. Most likely he would make love to her if she demanded, but it would mean nothing to him. And it would only tie her heart more closely to him.

  She was going to have to release them, both the baby and the man. The two creatures who had become infinitely important to her, two creatures she had grown to love, and she had no claim to them. It was time to start letting go.

  The hotel room came equipped with thick terry-cloth robes. She pulled one around her, then went and lay down on the bed in the twilight gloom, listening to the deep, even breathing of the sleeping child.