Coming To Terms

by Patricia Watters

  Carter let out a muffled guffaw. "Like a rich boy from an elite New England academy. Not very well. But I was also working with men who'd been in the military for years, and I was green; another reason they didn't want me around. I'd be a risk in the jungle because I didn't know shit what I was doing."

  "Yeah, I know the feeling, maybe in reverse. I was the punk kid from nowhere. No class, no education to speak of, and before long I was cleaning up messes for men who'd been in business twice as long as I was old. But they needed my services, so they begrudgingly gave me their business." He let out a little chuckle. "So it seems, we were both fish out of water."

  One corner of Carter's mouth tipped up as he looked at Jerry. "Maybe that's what it takes to build character in a man."

  Jerry knew Carter wasn't talking about himself. It was a curious feeling to get backdoor praise from a man who'd held nothing but contempt for him for twenty-five years.

  Carter cut the discomfited moment of letting down their guards by adding, "It seems strange sitting here surrounded by booby traps, talking about something I haven't wanted to talk about since leaving Nam. It also feels kind of therapeutic."

  "Go ahead then," Jerry said. "Be my guest."

  For a few moments Carter said nothing, his eyes looking off as if into the past, then he took a long steadying breath and started talking.

  "Before leaving home we saw movies of what was going on over there and it seemed more like war games than the real thing, but on my first day in Nam I knew it was no game. A truck with recruits pulled into the compound and the guys piled out in their new jungle fatigues and stood in formation waiting for orders. A few minutes later, choppers started coming in and the men were told to unload them, but what they were unloading were the bodies of the men they'd be replacing, most of them blown to bits by who knows what. By the time those recruits finished unloading bodies, their new fatigues were stained with blood, and the men would never be the same, and that was only the beginning. The stress wears you down. You have an engagement, get into a firefight, have close calls with traps or bombs, all in a single day. With that kind of stress soldiers turn to alcohol or drugs. It builds, and by the time you get out, you have stress disorder."

  Jerry looked at Carter. "Are you telling me you have stress disorder?"

  "Hell, I don't know what I have. Lapse of memory maybe because I don't talk about it, at least not until now."

  "Yeah, some things are best left buried." Jerry understood all too well the need to stay silent about things that are too painful to face, like seeing the burnt out frame of a car and the charred remains of a kid dead at sixteen.

  Carter started in again. "In the jungle you shed the rules of society to learn the rules of survival and become more animalistic. You don't wash, you smell like dirt and B.O., and when you finally go home you have to toss out everything you learned about survival and learn the rules of society again. It's not easy going from jungle base camps with hand-dug latrines to a twenty-two-room mansion with marble bathrooms and a staff of servants." He let out a short laugh. "Man do I sound pathetic. You probably grew up living like I did in the bush."

  "Close, but not quite," Jerry said, offering a little smile of understanding.

  "You have siblings?" Carter asked, turning to look at Jerry.

  "Yeah, two half-brothers somewhere. We took different paths and that's fine with me."

  "And your mother?"

  "Who knows? After beating the crap out of me a few times I didn't care what happened to her. It's fine though. I've got my girls and—" he stopped short of saying, Andrea, adding instead, "I've got my girls and my grandkids."

  Carter eyed him for a few moments, and said, "Most of the regular soldiers came from backgrounds like yours and were a hell of a lot better qualified for Special Forces than I was, but instead of getting one of them, Special Forces got a privileged shithead like me who grew up needing a battalion of nannies to wipe his butt."

  Jerry looked at Carter and smiled. "I'm not sure, Ellison, but I think you just paid me a compliment."

  Carter shrugged. "I did, long overdue."

  "Well, if it turns out we're about to become friends, it's twenty-five years too late," Jerry said. "Andrea and I are about to become history."

  Carter looked at him. "Is that what you want?"

  "Hell, Carter, I don't know what I want with that woman any more. She drives me crazy. I spent twenty-five years trying to one-up you by giving her everything I thought I'd taken away from her when she married me. And just for the record, I never asked Andrea to drop out of college and marry me. We'd planned on marrying after she graduated, but when I got the chance to start my own business and told her I was moving, she quit school and came with me. She thought I'd find someone else if I went without her, and I was sure she'd find someone else if I left her behind, so when she insisted on going with me I didn't try to stop her. But we had some good years before..." He paused, as a few memories began to surface. "Yeah. There were some good years."

  "Don't write her off too quickly," Carter said. "Andrea's stubborn, but she's not stupid."

  "Is that another compliment?" Jerry looked at Carter and waited.

  He smiled. "Could be."

  For a few minutes they sat together saying nothing, but during the silence, Jerry could feel a rapport he would never have expected an hour before. It made him sad to think it took twenty-five years to get to know the man.

  Carter was the first to speak. Glancing back at the trail where they'd been, then ahead where they were going, he said, "Something's not right. I can feel it."

  "Feel what?" Jerry asked.

  "The silence. When the birds are quiet there's something wrong. Don't ask me why because I don't know. It's just how it is, like the forest is waiting for something to happen, the same gut feeling I got in the jungles in Nam when I knew we were being watched."

  Jerry felt it too, an eerie, unnatural silence. The question now was whether to go forward and confront whatever was out there, or go back and warn the others.

  CHAPTER 14

  Andrea glanced back and was relieved to see Bud Howell behind her again. He'd left the trail for a few minutes to relieve himself, and during that time she began to have the feeling that they were being followed. She assumed it was nerves brought on by having seen the spike pit Jerry and her father uncovered. The idea that a human being set such a brutal thing to maim another human being was inconceivable, especially since the man in charge of the operation was a man she'd not only trusted, but had been alone with in his stateroom on two occasions.

  Odd though, her first thought when she looked into the pit was that if she'd stepped into it, the spikes would mess up her legs, and Jerry liked her legs. In fact, he seemed to like her again, at least he liked the way she looked. How ludicrous, worrying about avoiding a pit that could send spikes through her legs because they wouldn't look good for Jerry any more.

  Thinking she heard something beyond the rat-a-tat-tat- of a woodpecker, she stopped abruptly, raised her machete in readiness, and said to Bud, "Did you hear that crackling noise behind us? It sounded low, like it was on the trail."

  Bud's hand automatically came up to rest on the butt of the pistol on his hip. "Could have been an iguana," he replied. "Schribe said some get to be six feet long. I'll hang back for a few minutes and listen. You go on ahead and catch up with Schribe." His hand still resting on the butt of the gun, he waited and watched.

  Andrea quickened her pace and caught up with Inspector Schribe. After explaining why Bud was hanging back, she said, while eyeing the pistols in twin holsters on his hips, "If you let me have one of those guns I'd feel a whole lot safer."

  "They're Government Issue and you don't have a permit to use them," Schribe said.

  "You're not serious. You'd hold me to that, out here among drug kingpins and assassins?"

  Schribe laughed quietly. "Yeah, that does seem a little absurd." He slipped one of the pistols from its holster and handed the butt end to her,
saying, "Keep the safety on and tuck it in your belt."

  "Where is the safety?" Andrea asked, looking up at him.

  Schribe eyed her with misgiving. "You've never shot a pistol?"

  "No," Andrea admitted, "but I can point and fire. You just need to show me where the safety is and how to take it off."

  Schribe sucked in a long breath.

  "I can do this, inspector," Andrea said. "I just need to know where the safety is."

  The muscles in Schribe's jaws bunched, as if he were reconsidering, then he said while pointing, "The safety's here. Push it this way and it's off. Push it this way and it's on. If someone approaches, slip it off, curve your finger around the trigger, and keep the gun pointed down unless you want to wipe him out. That thing has a hair trigger and it can blow a hole in a man."

  Andrea slipped the safety off then held the gun in her hand, pointing it toward the ground. The feel of a steel muzzle on occasion rubbing against her leg was a constant reminder that this was not a game, that they were moving deeper and deeper into a forest where snipers could be hiding, and this whole episode in her life had to be a bad dream. But when she drew in a long, nerve-settling breath, taking with it the scent of fungus, mold and tropical flowers, mingled with salt air from the ocean, she knew it wasn't a dream, but the culmination of a very bad decision to spend time with a stranger who might add a little spice to her life, when she already had a husband who was the sexiest, spiciest man she knew, a man who was also not far ahead of her on the trail, and maybe at this moment, walking into a trap. The idea made her chest tighten and her stomach queasy.

  She looked around again and Bud was nowhere in sight, which alarmed her. She'd expected him to join them by now. "Inspector," she called ahead to Schribe. He turned and waited for her to catch up. "Something's not right. I can feel it."

  Schribe looked in the direction from where they'd been. "I know. Howell should've caught up by now. I'll go back and see if something's wrong. Wait here and keep your hand on the butt of that pistol." He stepped around her and started back down the trail.

  Andrea looked ahead to where the path meandered deeper into the forest, then glanced back, where Schribe was retracing their tracks, all the while feeling eyes on her, eyes that weren't those of forest creatures, but eyes with evil intent.

  She waited for what seemed like the better part of a half hour, and still, neither of the men returned. Feeling a rush of adrenaline, along with the first muscle-weakening signs of panic, she gripped the gun tighter and curved a nervous finger around the trigger and continued up the trail. She considered taking off the safety, then decided against it, afraid if she heard movement ahead she'd shoot then ask questions, and it could be Jerry or her father.

  Wanting to catch up with them, she quickened her pace, trusting there were no booby traps ahead since Jerry and her father had already passed the section of trail on which she was traveling. A few hundred feet or so ahead, she came upon another exposed pit with spikes released. There was still no sign of Bud or the inspector behind her, and no indication that Jerry and her father were ahead. And still, she felt watched.

  Deciding to hide in the brush and wait for Bud and the inspector to rejoin her instead of trying to catch up with Jerry and her father, she glanced around and found a small path that looked recently traveled, and wondered if Jerry and her father had left the main trail to see where it went, or maybe went that way. Glancing ahead and seeing no one, she started up the narrow path. A short distance ahead, the path came to an end at a thicket of brush. The brush looked disturbed, as if it had been pushed aside for someone to pass through.

  Parting it, she peered into a natural grotto. Down a slope from it was a perfectly round hole, obviously one of the blue holes the inspector mentioned. The grotto was also a place where she could hide and wait. She parted the brush further, but when she stepped through the opening, one large hand clamped over her mouth, another took the gun from her, and a deep male voice said, in a soft Italian accent, "So, querida, you have come looking for me."

  ***

  In an effort to find the others, Jerry quickened his pace as they headed back down the trail from where they'd come. "There's no sign of any of them," he said, while glancing over his shoulder at Carter. "They should've gotten at least this far by now. Something's wrong."

  "I should've had Schribe hold Andrea as a material witness just to keep her from coming," Carter said. "I knew there'd be trouble. My only daughter and I might as well have sent her in front of a firing squad."

  "Kicking yourself now isn't helpful," Jerry said.

  "And going after men with guns, with only machetes to defend ourselves, doesn't make a helluva lot of sense either, but we have no choice."

  Jerry stopped and raised his hand for silence. "I heard something," he said in a hushed voice. "Isn't it around here where the path splits off to the blue hole?"

  Carter nodded. "Right over there. Let's check it out. The path looks more trampled than before."

  They made their way up the path, now easily discernible from having recently been trod, but when Jerry parted the brush, a commanding voice said, "I've been waiting for you two gentlemen." Alessandro Cavallaro stepped from behind an old growth pine, one arm around Andrea's ribs, a gun pressed to her head.

  Impulsively, Jerry started for Cavallaro. "Hold it there!" Cavallaro yelled, pressing the muzzle tight to Andrea's temple. "Don't come any closer."

  Jerry froze. "What do you want with her?" he asked, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it might burst through his chest. He shifted his gaze from the steely glint of the barrel and looked into Andrea's eyes, enormously wide in their shadowed sockets.

  "I want the stamp and I want a way out of here." Cavallaro looked at Carter, who'd stepped into the grotto and was standing behind Jerry. "You have a Learjet sitting at the airport, Ellison. You'll be taking me out of here."

  "I'll be taking you to hell first," Carter said, hand gripping the machete, while raising it to his shoulder.

  "Don't test my patience, old man," Cavallaro said. "If you take me to hell, your daughter will come with me. Now drop the machete."

  Carter's hand tightened on the handle, as if to hurl the thing, and Jerry was about to disarm Carter himself when Carter tossed the machete at Cavallaro's feet.

  "That's better." Cavallaro looked at Jerry. "You too." Jerry tossed his machete alongside Carter's. "Like I said, you'll be flying me out of here," he told Carter. "Schribe's going to clear it with customs and the airport so we can leave without any questions asked."

  "Where is Schribe now?" Jerry asked, wanting to distract Cavallaro, watching for a chance to rush him, which would be out of the question as long as he had a gun pressed against Andrea's head, but if the man looked away for an instant, he would. He wasn't sure what to expect from Carter though. He could be a loose cannon, or he could be competent in disarming Cavallaro.

  "Schribe's back on the trail, tied up." He looked at Carter. "Along with your body guard. Next time hire a man who's up to the job. Schribe's also going to call for a boat to take us to Andros Town and have a car waiting to take us to the airport. After I'm safely away from here, you'll be free to return home."

  Jerry didn't think for a minute that Cavallaro would simply let them walk away. Andrea's testimony in court could put him away for life and for that reason alone, Cavallaro couldn't let her go, but for now, they'd have to go along with him until they could jump him. "Let my wife go and take me as hostage instead," he said.

  "I can't let your wife go," Cavallaro replied. "She knows too much."

  "If you kill her you'd better kill me too because I'll hunt you down and see you suffer a slow agonizing death before I'm done with you," Jerry said, and he meant exactly that.

  Cavallaro let out a short, ironic laugh. "I don't want to kill your wife. I want to take her back to Italy with me. I'd almost convinced her to come before all this turned up. You see, I appreciate her in a way you never did, isn't that right cara mia?" he s
aid in a soft voice, allowing his finger to leave the butt of the gun to stroke Andrea's cheek. She recoiled from his touch, but said nothing. He leaned over her, and said in a quiet, affable voice, "Querida, I do not want to hurt you, but I need the stamp and I'll do whatever it takes to get it. Do you understand what I'm saying?" It was a softly spoken threat.

  When Andrea didn't reply, anger flared in Cavallaro's eyes. "The stamp, querida. Where is it?"

  "She doesn't have it," Jerry said. "Let her go."

  "She either has it or she knows who does." Cavallaro's thumb stroked the handgrip of the pistol, a gesture to remind them he was not playing games.

  Jerry held the man's caustic gaze. "When Schribe inspected the handbag he found the slit in the lining where you hid the stamp, but the stamp was gone. No one knows who took it or where it is."

  "Then I want the handbag. Once it's destroyed, there will be no evidence. Where is it?"

  "Scribe sent it to a lab." Jerry realized too late that he should have claimed ignorance. As long as there was a chance the handbag could be recovered and destroyed, Andrea would be safe because her testimony would mean nothing without hard evidence.

  Cavallaro leaned toward Andrea, and said, "Then I guess you won't be coming to Italy with me after all." His finger curved around the trigger. "You won't be going anywhere but down that blue hole with your husband and father because your testimony could put me away. Believe me, cara mia, it's not the way I want it. I would like to have had you with me in Italy." He glanced down at the blue hole. "The water's at least fifty feet down, so after the fall it will be quick, but I'll give you one last chance to tell me where the stamp is, so what's it going to be?"

  "Damn you to hell!" Jerry yelled, then drew in a ragged breath to steady the erratic beating of his heart. "Alright. I know where the stamp is, but I'll have to take you to it because it's hidden where no one could find it."