by Amy Waeschle
In one swoop, he reached down and yanked her to her feet. “That’s enough of that. We’re leaving.”
“No!” Cassidy sobbed, unable to stop the terror from taking hold in her heart.
Mel looked her in the eyes, and his gaze softened. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.” He scooped up her pack and thrust it at her, still holding one of her arms.
Cassidy slung one pack strap over her left shoulder. That’s when she remembered the multi-tool attached to her right hip belt. Was it still there? Cassidy’s fingers searched along the fabric to the nylon case and wiggled one finger beneath the Velcro flap, finding the hard metal edge in place. Her breath ragged, her fingers shaking in fear, she peeled the flap and slid out the tool.
Mel opened the door, pulling her along as he did, and turned just as she tucked the tool inside her closed fist. Outside, the cacophony of the insect concert hit her ears like a sound wave. Thankfully, it’s still dark, Cassidy thought as they stepped onto the stairway, her right hand working the tool into the correct configuration to access the knife. But the knife was tucked inside a row of other tools—a screwdriver head, a small pair of scissors, a bottle opener—and the tiny sliver of an indent on each to remove them, meant for a fingernail, was impossible to move with only one hand.
They were descending the stairs step by step, the movements jerky from Mel pulling on her arm. “I can do it!” she yelled when he pulled too hard, and she stumbled. But he didn’t stop, and they continued down. Desperate, she put the tool in her left hand, low and shielded from him unless he turned around. I’ll only have one shot at this. The fingers in her right hand felt for the correct groove. It would be no good to pull out the nail file, or the stubby Phillip’s head.
Was the knife the first tool, or in the middle? She felt the edge of the first tool—it was the knife. She pinched its groove with the thumbnail of her free hand and pulled. Just then they reached the halfway, where the stairs reversed direction, and his sudden shift in movement to make the turn yanked her arm forcefully, pulling her hands apart. The knife, open and locked in place, went tumbling through the air and landed with a clatter.
Mel turned sharply at the sound and saw instantly what she had done. Cassidy jerked her body back, launching her backpack forward and into Mel at the same time. With a grunt of surprise, he let go of her arm, and she dove for the knife, her fingers scrabbling over the wood in the dark. Had it fallen through one of the stairs? Instantly, Mel was on her, his body weight crushing her, his hands searching the platform for the knife too. She writhed and bucked and fought with all her strength. Then the knife was in her hands and she jabbed it back in his direction, slicing the air.
Breathing heavily, Mel grabbed at the knife—easing the pressure on her left side just enough that she could roll. Her right hand came around hard. Mel cried out, and Cassidy scrambled backwards, unable to breathe. What had she hit? His side? His neck? Her backpack blocked her descent, so she jumped up and swung her legs over the railing. She tried to remember how high this location was off the forest floor—ten feet? six?—and was about to let go when Mel grabbed her and dragged her back over the railing. She fought, kicking and swishing the air with the knife, but he grabbed her wrist and slammed it down. Pain exploded in the back of her hand. She struggled to get it free, but he slammed it down again, and this time, she felt something pop. A cry escaped her lips as white-hot agony shot through her hand and fingers. She lost all feeling except for pain, and knew she had lost the knife.
Mel was on top of her, breathing fast, his weight crushing her hips. He pinned her arms to her sides with his knees. A fresh bolt of pain shot through her hand at the movement. “I was going to wait,” he said, struggling to remove something from his pocket. “But I can see that we’re going to need to do this now.”
Cassidy began to cry silent tears that tickled down the side of her temples and into her hair. This couldn’t be happening. How could she have let this happen? Clever Cassidy and her curiosity. Why had she let herself come to this place? Why hadn’t she checked into her room at Casa Pacifica?
Because she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone among all those happy people, the college kids with their carefree life and full social calendars, kids with their whole happy lives ahead of them.
But she was more alone now than she had ever felt.
Cassidy felt limp, resigned. A drop of blood hit her chest—from his shoulder, she realized. So she had stabbed him there, she thought, but how deep? Could she overpower him somehow? Get the knife back?
Then he unfolded the small case. Something flashed in the moonlight: a vial. Tiny, thin needles with red caps.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked, bucking and kicking.
“I’m doing you a favor,” he said, his voice calm. “It’s the best way to go, trust me.”
“No!” she said, her whole body electrified with the purpose of stopping him. He shifted his body to pin down her chest, blocking the view of her arm. She could feel his fingers stroking her inner arm. “Please!” she cried out, and arched her body with every last shred of strength, but only the hot prick of the needle answered.
Then, a rush of euphoria whooshed her off the stairs and into the air. She was floating, soaring, a feeling of peace and joy and light filling every corner of her being. Higher and higher she glided. Everything was beautiful, and perfect, and would go on being perfect, forever. She flew over the trees and the ocean, watching surfers ride waves from above, and a pod of dolphins swimming, and beyond, to an island where tropical flowers swayed in a sea breeze, making a shhuusssshing sound that was wonderful. She wondered if she was breathing, or if maybe she didn’t need to breathe anymore, ever again. Maybe she had become part of the air. Why had she never done this before? All of her sadness vanished. All of her worry, frustration, fear: gone. This was marvelous!
She felt a hand stroke her face, putting her further at ease. She remembered her father stroking her forehead at night to help her fall asleep, or to soothe her when she was sick. The sensation of joy sweetened even further, as if her father’s warmth was inside her, lifting her higher into the clouds. She had the sensation of being carried, the arms holding her strong and sure. Was her father carrying her? It didn’t matter where. What mattered was this feeling of joy and light and euphoria. She wanted the bright, lovely happiness to go on forever and ever, so she could forget everything from before. With a mild sense of annoyance, she realized that the sensation was fading. Instantly she wanted more of whatever it was so she could go back into the clouds and fly, so her heart could be filled with peace again.
The sensation faded further, and a gray fog enveloped her. She was in the back of a car. A strange, frustrated edge crowded into her brain. Where was she? There was an image of a plane on a tarmac, but she couldn’t place where it was or why it had appeared in her mind. Her body felt heavy, like a lead dummy. Her limbs felt like giant tree branches; she was a tree growing through Mel’s house. She started to cry but her hands couldn’t wipe the tears away. Why couldn’t she move? She began to shiver. She felt more tired than she had ever felt. Sleep tugged at her, drew her down. She closed her eyes, but Pete was there. He was angry with her. She could see his wrinkled brow, his shoulders hunched as he leaned on their kitchen counter. What had she done to upset him?
Far away, there was shouting. Was Pete shouting at her? She tried to say that she was sorry. For whatever she had done. For not being there when he died, for letting him down, for forgetting what he smelled like, and what his breathing sounded like at night when she lay next to him, and all the other things she would soon forget.
The shouting came with the smell of engines and light, too much light. She wanted the too-bright light to go out so she could sleep. So she could go to Pete and tell him she was sorry, and feel him holding her again. So he could forgive her, and all of this could end.
Twenty-Three
Cassidy woke slowly to the sound of beeps and a sense of malaise so powerful it mad
e her want to cry out in anger, but it was like her mouth refused to open. Someone had removed her contacts so nothing in her surroundings was in focus, and this more than anything made her anger worse. Heavy blankets lay across her body, and as she stirred in the bed—a hospital bed, she understood instantly, something in her arm stirred, too. An IV tube.
The sound of movement outside the room caused her to turn her head. Her door was shut, but the noises of doctors and nurses moving around, a sound of laughter, the half of someone’s reply, put the final pieces of the puzzle together. Though she had no memory of arriving. There was only the sensation of floating—that glorious, precious feeling of utter peace and beauty—more joy than she had ever experienced in her life, and probably never would again.
Another wave of despair washed over her. How had this happened to her?
She remembered Pete’s angry posture. And there was a memory of being lifted. Someone’s voice in her face, yelling. Whose voice? Pete’s?
The logical side of her brain laid out the facts: Mel had injected her with some kind of drug, and the effect had given her a powerful high. But where was Mel? Had he brought her here?
A figure stood in the doorway. In an instant, she identified him: Bruce.
Bruce entered the room, and though she couldn’t see shit without her glasses, his distress was clear. He held a cup of coffee, and she noticed for the first time the chair placed close to her bed. He quickly put the coffee on the side table and stood at her side.
“Jesus, you gave us a scare,” he said.
Cassidy didn’t know what to say.
He seemed to sense that this was the wrong angle, and his smile faded. He sat down and cleared his throat, his body posture tense. “You had overdosed. Our team got there . . . ” He paused to rub a hand across his chin. “I thought you were on a plane to LA.” He sighed, and she remembered the hesitation in his voice when she’d told him that she needed to return to Tamarindo for her things.
“Wait,” she said. “Who’s we?”
He gave her a sharp tilt of his head. “Right. Maybe we should start over.” He sighed. “I’m a federal agent for a special unit of the Justice Department, Homeland Security, actually. Costa Rica’s OIJ is involved too. We formed a special task force to fight human trafficking in this region.”
“Mel,” Cassidy breathed, gasping as the memories came flooding back. The treehouse, the peaceful dinner on the porch, the feeling that she was safe, cared for, his gentle touch, and the way he had attended to her needs so masterfully. A sob choked in her throat, and despair came down on her again like a flood.
“Hey, hey,” Bruce said, moving closer, touching her shoulder. “We got him, okay?”
Cassidy nodded, not because she cared about Mel being captured, but because she didn’t want to have to explain the feelings swirling around in her head: her shame at being deceived, the emptiness now that she was once again alone, and her frustration that she had been unable to save herself.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” he said. “My team has been working on this bust for months. I knew someone big was at the top, but I didn’t know it was Mel until the end. I didn’t know when the bust would occur. Everything started happening so fast.” He ran a hand through his hair again.
“It’s not your fault,” Cassidy said, and closed her eyes. Being unable to focus her vision but trying anyway was giving her a headache. “I should never have come,” she said as a bitter seed sprouted in her gut. “Or at least, I should have . . . ” She stopped, unable to continue this line of thought.
“The important thing is that you’re alive,” he said.
Cassidy opened her eyes again to squint at him. “Did I . . . die?”
Bruce’s look was serious. “Our kits have Naloxone. Otherwise, you would have.”
Cassidy had a faint memory of waking with a start, of being unable to breathe because there was something weighing on her chest, but there was no memory of anything after that.
“What time is it?” she asked, her gaze sweeping the room for a clock, but finding none, at least nothing her eyes could detect.
“I brought all your things,” he said. “Are these yours?” he asked, fishing around in the nearby closet and producing a set of glasses.
Gratefully, Cassidy put them on and the world righted itself. Bruce’s brown eyes were so full of kindness, his posture hunched and tense, that it made her start to cry all over again. She took it all in: the TV on the wall opposite her, and the tubes and bags of fluids hanging from their poles, and the monitor with a sensor attached to her arm. As if she had conjured it to life, it automatically squeezed her arm, then released, and a set of numbers popped up on the monitor.
Bruce was looking at the screen too. “You’re blood pressure is still low.”
“Can I still make my flight?” Cassidy asked, knowing the answer.
Bruce gave her a sharp look. “No, I think they plan to keep you for a few days.”
“A few days?” Cassidy shouted, sitting upright.
Bruce put up his hands. “You can’t just jump up and walk out of here, not yet.” He nodded at the machinery. “It’s not safe. Your body is still metabolizing the drug. You might need more medicine. Your hand needs a cast.”
At this, she looked at her left hand, which was wrapped in a giant bandage. She could see the purple tips of her middle and ring finger poking out. “Is it broken?” she asked.
Bruce nodded. “Two metatarsals. It’ll heal. But you’ll have to lay off typing for a while.” He smiled at his joke, but it faded again when he saw her reaction. She appreciated his attempts to make her feel better, but it was like she’d forgotten how to show it. “My ring!” she said in a panic.
Bruce grimaced. “They had to cut it off,” he said.
Cassidy gasped. A new wave of despair crashed over her. Pete’s ring, the one he had created for her to wear for the rest of her life.
“It was that or lose your finger.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Cassidy couldn’t look at him. Tears blurred her vision and she wiped them away with her good hand. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said with difficulty.
“You saved mine,” he said softly. “So we’re even.” He was using his teasing voice again, and somehow this downshifted her tension. “I’m going to let you rest,” he said, and rose.
Cassidy realized that she was pushing him away. “When it was happening,” she said. “I saw Pete. He was angry with me for something. He was shouting.”
Bruce stood still. “That was me, Cass,” he said. “You don’t remember what I was yelling?”
Cassidy searched her memories for the answer, but found that her brain didn’t have that ability.
“I was yelling at you to fight, to not give up.”
At this, Cassidy remembered. And she remembered that it had brought her back, had given her the strength to push through the heavy darkness to the light.
“Will I be okay?” she asked him. “I mean, am I . . . ” She knew what addicts went through to get clean. Was she going to have to walk that horrible road?
“You’ll go through withdrawals, which is going to suck, but then you’ll be okay.” He paused. “You’re not an addict.”
Cassidy lay back into the pillows. The news came as a relief, but it was only temporary. A new wave of sadness washed over her.
Bruce moved to the door when she added, “The high, it was . . . incredible.” She looked at him squarely. She wanted to say it aloud. So much of Reeve’s battle had been secret, hidden. She didn’t want any secrets. “I understand now.”
Bruce gave her a puzzled look.
“Why people do it and can’t stop.” She remembered the angry, desperate craving for more of the drug as the rush faded. “It’s awful.”
Bruce nodded. “I’ll tell the doctor that you’re ready for him,” he said, and then stepped from the room.
The next time she woke, her glasses rested on the small table next to her, along with a S
tyrofoam cup with a straw. Gratefully, she took a long sip and slipped her glasses back on. The room was dark, so it had to be night. The sounds from outside the room were infrequent, though an occasional alarm or muted conversation made its way through the cracks. She thought back to everything that Bruce had told her, but none of it really registered.
Bruce had been working undercover—that she understood. So did that mean that he had used her somehow? When Reeve went missing, it had to have been a problem for him. And what about the night they’d shared under the stars? She had felt a connection to him then—was it to be trusted? He had told her about growing up in Hawaii, about his parents, about surfing the North Shore. Had those stories been made up as part of his cover? These thoughts were too much for her, and her taxed brain set them adrift. She wondered if she would ever truly understand the events that had led her here.
When they were finally ready to release her from the hospital, Cassidy felt much stronger. Her hand no longer throbbed, her lungs didn’t feel raspy, and her brutal headache was mostly gone. She picked through her clothes, selecting the long, cotton skirt she had saved for the flight home, and the only clean shirt she had left, a long sleeve button-down meant to act as a sun shirt. Pete’s ring, sliced by the emergency team, was tucked away in her pack. I guess I have an answer to Héctor’s question now, she thought with bitterness.
After she had signed the paperwork, and that day’s doctor, a woman in her fifties with a serious air, had listed her discharge instructions, Cassidy slipped on her flip-flops and waited for her escort. A middle-aged man arrived, dressed in scrubs, his brown eyes weary. He checked her wristband against his paperwork, and then helped her climb into the wheelchair. The man grabbed her pack, grunting with the weight, and then they were gliding down the glossy corridor. Cassidy did not wave to the nurses or the doctor.
