Where There's Smoke

by Sandra Brown

  “Despite the way our relationship ended, I loved Clark,” she said. “I believe with all my heart that he loved me. Does that make this mission noble enough for you?”

  “Was he Ashley’s father?”

  She hadn’t seen that curveball coming. For a moment she was dumbstruck. She had never hinted that Clark had fathered her child. Not even the news hounds with the sharpest teeth had sunk that particular fang into her. On second thought, she realized, she shouldn’t be surprised that Key was the first to raise the question. It was characteristically shocking.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “You mean you don’t know? You were screwing them at the same time?”

  “I’ll rephrase,” Lara said heatedly. “I won’t answer. Not until we’ve done what we came down here to do.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “You’re the one who asked about Ashley’s parentage. You tell me if it makes a difference.”

  “Oh, I see. You think I might try harder to find her remains if she was a Tackett.” He made a disagreeable sound. “Your opinion of me must be even lower than I thought. Exactly where do I rank on your scale of life forms? A notch above pond scum? Or a notch below?”

  Anger was a supreme waste of energy considering the ordeal facing them. “Look, Key, we’ve certainly had our differences. We’ve both slung more than our share of mud. Some of it was warranted. Some of it was spiteful. But I trust you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked you to bring me down here.”

  “You had no other options.”

  “I could have hired a mercenary.”

  “You couldn’t afford the going rate.”

  “Probably not, but shortage of funds wouldn’t have stopped me. Eventually I would have gotten the money, even if I’d had to wait for my inheritance.”

  “But you felt that we Tacketts owed you this.”

  “That wasn’t it entirely.” She hesitated; he looked over at her. “True, I came to Eden Pass specifically to coerce you into bringing me down here. But I didn’t expect to feel this confident about my choice.”

  Their eyes locked and held for several moments. Finally Lara turned away. “Once we’re safely on our way back home, I promise to tell you anything you want to know. In the meantime, don’t throw any more poison darts, okay? I won’t throw any either.”

  He said nothing for several minutes. When he did, he spoke in a gruff voice on a topic unrelated to Ashley’s origins. “One way or another, we’ll be going down soon.”

  “One way or another?”

  “We’ll either reach the coast and find the landing strip, or we’ll run out of fuel and ditch into the ocean. In the meantime, why don’t you try to get some sleep.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  He grinned. “Yes.”

  “Not funny.”

  She searched the horizon but didn’t see even a seam in the darkness. Key carefully monitored the instruments. She noticed the decrease in their altitude.

  “You’re going down?”

  “Below five hundred feet, just in case their radar is more sophisticated than you think. You’re sure the priest will be there?”

  “I don’t have an ironclad guarantee.” He’d grilled her on this a thousand times. She was as sure as she could be under the circumstances. “He’s been given our estimated time of arrival. When he hears the airplane approaching, he’s to light torches on the landing strip.”

  “Torches,” he said scoffingly. “Probably tomato soup cans filled with kerosene.”

  “He’ll be there and so will the torches.”

  “The wind’s picked up to twenty knots.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Less than ten would be ideal. Forty would be impossible. I’ll settle for twenty. Crosswinds are always a factor along a seacoast. I wonder how close the jungle is to the shore?”

  “Why?”

  “This late at night it could produce ground fog, which could mean that we’d miss not only the torches but the mountain. Until we ran into it, of course.”

  Her palms began to sweat. “Can you think of anything encouraging?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “If I die, Janellen will be doubly rich.”

  “I thought you were the fearless pilot,” she said with exasperation. “The Sky King of the nineties. You told me you could fly anything, anywhere, anytime.”

  He wasn’t listening. “There’s the shore.” He checked the loran. “We’re here. Start watching for the lights. It’s up to you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I’ve got to keep us from crashing into those goddamn mountains while keeping below five hundred feet. It’s dicey. At least there’s no fog.”

  The rocky shore could vaguely be detected on the horizon. Eons ago, a chunk of mountain had broken away from the strip of Central America that is now Montesangre. That chunk had drifted into the Pacific ocean where it became an island three hundred and eighty miles offshore. In a geological time frame, this had been a recent event. The jagged tear in the mountain range hadn’t had time to erode into sandy beaches. Thus, the mountains dominated Montesangre’s coast and formed an inhospitable shore.

  Consequently, the country had not enjoyed the healthy tourist trade of its more fortunate neighbors who depended on vacationers from North America and Europe to support their national economies. Such economic deprivation had caused more than one armed conflict between Montesangre and surrounding Central American republics.

  From the air, the mountain range resembled the letter C, which curved from the interior of the country, forming a northern border with the neighboring nation, then running parallel to the shore for miles before tapering off. In the hollow of that C nestled the capital city, Ciudad Central. Ninety-five percent of Montesangre’s population was concentrated in the city proper or in scattered villages surrounding it.

  Beyond those villages in all directions stretched miles of dense jungle, populated only by wildlife, vegetation, and several tribes of Indians who lived very much as they had for centuries, without the enlightening, or corrupting, elements of modern civilization.

  Lara had flown into Montesangre only once before; after her arrival she hadn’t left the country until the day she was transported out, injured and unconscious. As the shore became hastily more distinguishable, she was filled with a sense of dread. She recalled how miserably unhappy she had been when she arrived with Randall. On that day, she’d had only the knowledge of the life growing inside her womb to sustain her and buoy her ravaged spirit. Ashley was the only reason she ever would have returned.

  “Also keep an eye out for other aircraft,” Key said. “I can’t do any sightseeing.”

  “No one knows we’re coming.”

  “You hope. Just in case, I don’t want an army helicopter flying up our ass, do you?”

  Lara glanced at him. The cockpit’s temperature was comfortable, but a trickle of sweat was running down his bearded cheek. Her skin, too, was damp with nervous perspiration.

  “We’ve got nowhere else to go but down,” he muttered as he read the gauges. “I couldn’t even make it out of Montesangren airspace. We’re shit-out of fuel. Where’re the goddamn torches?”

  Frantically Lara leaned forward and scanned the coastline. She saw nothing but a narrow stretch of beach that bled into the tree line. The mountains loomed darkly above it.

  What if Father Geraldo wasn’t there? What if he’d been tortured until he divulged information? What if it was known by the rebel commanders that the widow of the late U.S. ambassador was returning? Not only her life but Key’s would be in peril. There would be no one to help them. They would be at the mercy of their captors and, as Lara knew, the Montesangrens were not a merciful people. Their best hope would be to crash and die instantly.

  “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to pull her up. Hold on.” He pushed forward on the throttle quadrant and the craft went into
a hard climb. Lara looked below. They barely cleared the crest of the mountain. Key banked to the left and skimmed the steep, vegetated walls before swinging back out over the surf.

  “Where’s the padre, Lara?”

  “I don’t know.” Anxiously she pulled her lower lip through her teeth. She’d been confident that their escort would be there.

  “See anything?”

  “No.”

  “Wait! I think I see—”

  “Where?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  He executed another drastic maneuver that sent her stomach plunging. She closed her eyes to regain her equilibrium. When she opened them, the horizon was back in place and three small dots of light were glimmering below and ahead of them. Then a fourth flickered on.

  “That’s him!” she cried. “He’s here. I told you he would be.”

  “Hang on. We’re going in.”

  He leveled the aircraft and decreased their altitude and air speed. Sooner than Lara anticipated, the spots of light were rushing toward them. They landed with a hard bump. The plane bounced along the uneven dirt strip. Key put all his strength into pushing the throttle forward. He practically stood on the foot pedals. The landing strip was built on an incline to assist slowing them down and facilitating a short landing. Still, it seemed to take forever to stop. They came breathtakingly close to the trees at the end of the crude runway.

  He turned off the motor. They sighed with relief. Key placed his hand on her knee. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” Since she had to alight before he could, she reached for the door.

  “Wait.” He sat tense and still, his eyes sweeping the black curtain of darkness outside the airplane. “I want to see who our welcoming committee is.”

  They sat in silence. Behind them, the six torches, three on each side of the landing strip, were extinguished one by one.

  Key kept his right hand on her knee. With his left, he reached for the handgun beneath his seat. He’d told her it was a Beretta 9mm. He slid back the top, automatically loading the first bullet into the chamber. It was now cocked and ready to fire.

  “Key!”

  “We’re sitting ducks. I’m not going to be snuffed out without putting up at least token resistance.”

  “But—”

  He held up his hand for silence. She heard it, too—an approaching vehicle. Looking back, she saw a jeep emerging from the darkness and slowly taking shape. It pulled up behind the aircraft and stopped. The driver stepped out and moved toward the plane.

  Key aimed the Beretta at the shadow figure.

  Lara released a gasp of relief. “It’s Father Geraldo. He’s alone.”

  “I hope to hell he is.”

  Lara opened her door and gingerly stepped out of the plane, climbing down using the footholds in the wing. “Father Geraldo,” she said as she jumped to the ground. “Thank God you’re here.”

  He extended his hands. “Indeed. It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Porter.”

  She extended her hand, and he enfolded it in a warm, damp clasp. “You’re looking well,” she said.

  “And you.”

  “Have you learned anything about where my daughter is buried?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve made inquiries, but to no avail. I’m sorry.”

  The news was disappointing but not surprising. “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.” Just then Key stepped off the wing. “This is Key Tackett.”

  “Father,” he said in a clipped voice. “Thanks for sending those coordinates. Without them, we’d never have found you.”

  “I’m glad they were useful.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  “Reasonably sure.”

  Key frowned. “Well, let’s get this baby out of sight before we attract company.”

  “I assure you,” the priest said, “for the time being, we’re safe.”

  “I don’t like to take chances. Which way?”

  “Because of the revolution, the drug traffic has slacked off considerably. The strip hasn’t been used in a while. I brought along a machete, and while I was waiting for you I cleared out some brush.” He indicated what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of jungle.

  “Let’s get to it.”

  After hacking away some of the densest brush, the three pushed the airplane off the landing strip. They retrieved the few items they’d brought with them, including the hidden rifle, then covered the plane with the brush.

  “This is a remote spot,” the priest said to Key, who was surveying the camouflaged aircraft from every angle. “Even in daylight I don’t think it’ll be detected. Allow me, Mrs. Porter.”

  He picked up Lara’s duffel and the camera bag and headed for the jeep. Hoisting his own duffel and the rifle to his shoulder, Key spoke to Lara in an undertone.

  “You failed to mention that the padre is a drunk.”

  “He’s been conducting Mass. That’s sacramental wine on his breath.”

  “Like hell. It’s Jamaican rum. I’ve vomited up enough of it to know how it smells.”

  “Then you’re in no position to judge.”

  “I don’t care if he guzzles horse piss, so long as he’s reliable.”

  Before she could defend the charge, they reached the jeep. Father Geraldo, who wore his forty years as though they were sixty, helped Key stow their gear in the back. “If you don’t mind riding back here, it will be more comfortable for Mrs. Porter in front.”

  “I don’t mind,” Key said, easily swinging himself up into the backseat. “From here I can guard our rear.”

  “Well said.” The priest smiled at him. “We live in turbulent times.”

  “Right. Over drinks some time I’d love to philosophize with you. Now, I think we’d better relocate. Pronto.”

  If the priest took umbrage at Key’s reference to drinks, he didn’t show it. After assisting Lara into the passenger seat, he climbed behind the steering wheel. “Best to leave the lights off until we approach the city. The roads are sometimes patrolled at night.”

  “By whom?” Key wanted to know.

  “By whoever wants to patrol them. It changes on a daily basis.”

  “What’s the political climate like now?” Lara asked.

  “Volatile.”

  “Terrific,” Key muttered.

  “The old regime wants to regain control. President Escávez is still in hiding, but rumor is that he’s trying to assemble an army and reclaim his office.”

  “The rebels won’t allow it without a bloodbath,” Lara said.

  “No doubt,” the priest agreed, “but Escávez isn’t their primary concern. He believes the people still love him, but he’s wrong. No one wants to return to the days of his despotism before the revolution. He’s just an old man deluding himself, more a nuisance than a threat. The rebels have bigger problems to worry about.”

  “Such as?” Key asked. He’d worked up a sweat swinging the machete and moving the plane. He removed his shirt and used it to mop his face, neck, and throat. Lara envied him that freedom. She was sweltering. Her blouse clung to her skin.

  “Lack of money is their primary problem,” the priest replied to Key’s question. “Lack of supplies. Lack of zeal. The men are disenchanted. After living in armed camps in the jungle for years, revolution isn’t nearly as exciting as it seemed in the beginning.

  “They’re tired of fighting, but they fear their leaders too much to return home. They’re hungry, diseased, and homesick. Some haven’t seen their families since Escávez was overthrown. They hide in the jungle and come out only to wreak havoc on small villages and scavenge for food. Mostly they fight among themselves. Since Jorge Pérez Martínez was assassinated—”

  “He was? We didn’t hear about that in the States,” Lara said, surprised. Pérez had been a general in Escávez’s army who had staged the military coup to overthrow him. The rebels had regarded him as a savior of an oppressed people.

  “He was killed by one of his own men more than a year ag
o,” the priest told her. “For months the leadership was up for grabs. First one lieutenant, then another proclaimed himself Pérez’s successor, but none could hold the rebels together. There were many factions with no cohesiveness. As a result, the counterrevolutionaries, among them Escávez, began to make inroads.

  “Then, one of Pérez’s protégés emerged and declared himself the new general of the rebel army. Over the last several months he’s gained support, I think chiefly because his men fear him. He’s supposedly ruthless and will stop at nothing to cement his position as leader. El Corazón del Diablo. The Devil’s Heart. That’s what they call him.” He glanced sideways at Lara. “He passionately hates Americans.”

  Saying anything more would have been superfluous. She looked back at Key to find his eyes on her, piercing and intent. “It’s no worse than we expected,” she said defensively.

  “No better, either.”

  “I brought some clothes,” Father Geraldo said, gesturing at the soft bundle at Lara’s feet. “Before we reach the outskirts of the city, you’d better put them on.”

  They’d been following a rutted dirt road that snaked through the jungle, seemingly without destination. Each time a night bird screeched, Lara’s skin broke out in goose bumps, though the humidity was stifling. Her hair felt heavy on her neck, more so when she placed a scratchy scarf over her head as was customary of the matrons of Montesangre, except for the progressive generation of women who fought alongside their male comrades in arms.

  In the bundle of clothing she also found a shapeless cotton print dress. She gathered it into her hands and stepped into it, working it up her legs and over her hips before placing her arms through the sleeves. She tied it at her waist with a sash.

  For Key the priest had brought the muslin tunic and pants of a farmer and a straw hat. As he placed it on his head, the jeep topped a hill. Ciudad Central was spread out below them, a blanket of twinkling lights.

  At the sight of the city she despised, fear and loathing filled Lara’s heart. If she’d had a choice at that moment, she might have given up her insane objective and returned to the airplane. But somewhere in that urban sprawl her daughter was buried.