by K C West
Chapter 1
Kim and I peered through the tinted glass of the limo as it sped up to the parking access for Logan Airport’s E Terminal.
“Oh, shit.” I grasped her hand. “There’s a bunch of reporters camped out waiting for us.”
“How the hell did they find out about this trip?” Kim’s brow furrowed. “Never mind, honey. When we get to the entrance, just put your head down and keep moving forward. Your father and I will protect you.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. But this is where my controlled breathing for stress relief will be useful.”
In the seat across from us, Dad shifted. He removed his cell phone from a leather holster on his belt and dialed airport security. After requesting a contingent of guards, he looked at me. “Mitch and I will handle the questions and run interference for both of you.”
“Thanks.” Even though his news was reassuring, I continued to focus on my breathing.
Kim still gripped my hand. “We’ll get Pup, our luggage, and ourselves onto that plane as soon as possible.”
The vehicle threaded expertly through narrow lanes of taxis and shuttle buses. Walter and Mitch had chauffeured our family for decades, and Mitch was a superb pilot. I had no doubt about their abilities. Unfortunately, I couldn’t control my pounding heart or my sweaty palms. The thought of mingling with a crowd of curious and nosy reporters was enough to unsettle me.
I took another deep breath, grabbed the leash of our seventy-pound half wolf, half German Shepherd, reached for my daypack, and prepared to run the gauntlet.
As the limo screeched to a stop, Dad and Mitch clambered out to serve as human shields. The reporters swarmed around us, firing questions. Cameras whined and whirred like pesky blowflies, hovering just beyond our reach. My father countered each question with a loud, “No comment.”
Kim was standing in front of me. She held one hand behind her back, palm towards me, and I gave it a quick squeeze. We had devised this way for her to connect with me in public if I should fear an anxiety attack threatening. Sometimes, if the concern level was low, I only tickled her palm, and sometimes, like today, I needed a more tenacious connection.
Several Airport Security personnel arrived, muscling their way into the crowd to escort us.
Pup tensed beside me. When I paused to stroke his head, I could feel as well as hear a menacing growl rumble through his body. He must have sensed that these pushy humans didn’t have our best interests in mind. “Easy, fella,” I told him, trying to reassure both of us.
Kim reached down and took another section of his leash. “Just keep moving forward. We’re almost to the door.”
A camera flashed to our right. “PJ, this way! Just one more.”
“What happened in Wales?”
Stuff I’d rather forget about right now.
“Were you kidnapped?” I closed my eyes, trying not to remember. Yes, damn it.
“Were you raped?”
I opened my eyes and focused on Kim’s hand on the leash. That’s none of your business.
“Are you pregnant?”
Jesus. Enough, already.
The absurd interrogation continued. Kim and I plowed our way through the crowd, managing to keep our silence.
At the terminal entrance, an overzealous member of the press stuck a microphone in Kim’s face. “Dr. Blair, a question, please?”
She glared at him. “Get that thing away from me.”
Don’t make her any madder than she is already.
“But just - “
“I said get it out of my face. Now!”
Don’t push her, asshole.
“Is it true you two are lovers?”
Sweet Jesus, now you’ve done it.
Kim dropped her carry-on and seized the lapels of his sports jacket. “Back off, damn it!”
A photographer captured the action, and Kim reached for the lens of his camera.
“Hey, watch it,” he spluttered, dropping the camera into his bag. He snatched up a smaller one, probably thinking it would be harder for her to grab.
Dad stepped through the circle of reporters now blocking our path, retrieved Kim’s carry-on, and addressed the mob. “Move along, people. We have no comment for you. My daughter and her colleague must board a plane.”
Again the photographer raised his camera. Clearly, the guy had a death wish.
Kim shoved him and his equipment to the concrete. “Shit! You broke my camera, bitch!”
Several other photographers had captured the action.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginning of a blinding headache.
Kim pulled me close and pushed us both through the terminal’s electronic doors. “You come at us again, buddy,” she called over her shoulder, “and I’ll break your ugly face.”
“Kim, please, let it go.” I’m not sure she even heard me. We were in the terminal, though, and I hoped that distance would diffuse the situation. A few more seconds out there, and things could have turned really scary.
Another squadron of security people came to our rescue, flanking us as we regrouped inside. I had no time to look at all the ocean creatures embedded in the mosaic floor tiles. The jellyfish and the eel were favorites of mine, but the “Atlantic Journey” recently installed at Logan would have to take a back seat to our own journey across the Atlantic. We moved swiftly with the current of security personnel who guided us through customs and hurried us out to the Curtis Foundation’s corporate jet.
Kim and I had just enough time to hug Dad and say our goodbyes before racing up the portable stairway with Mitch to join his co-pilot, Richard Swanson, and Richard’s wife, Stacie. Stacie and Richard had already loaded our archaeological tools - including a pair of brand new Marshalltown 4.5-inch pointing trowels and some high visibility measuring tape - and prepared the cabin for our unexpected trip. When Mitch joined them, they started the pre-flight check.
Kim and I settled Pup in his crate in a corner of Dad’s onboard office. Once we were airborne, he would be allowed in with us in the main passenger lounge.
I sank into one of the spacious seats, dropping my jacket and the daypack holding my laptop onto the seat behind me. The main cabin could accommodate twelve passengers. Seats were arranged in three rows of two, on either side of a wide center aisle. I had selected a window seat in the middle of the right side, thinking that Kim, with her longer legs, might enjoy the extra room on the aisle.
She placed her computer case next to mine, slipped out of her jacket, and collapsed into the buttery-soft leather seat beside me. I heard her shoes hit the carpet with muted thuds. She slid her hand along my arm. “That was amusing.”
“For you, maybe.”
I could hear the whining pitch of the jet engines coming to life. It was a comforting sound after what we had just been through.
Stacie stepped into the cabin and stowed our gear in the overhead compartment. I don’t know what she thought about our relationship, but she treated me as she always had, like a kid sister, and she showed Kim the utmost respect and consideration. We felt we could relax in her presence, which made for more comfortable flights, especially on long ones like this.
Stacie hovered over us, making sure our seatbelts were securely fastened. “Quite a commotion back there. There’s never a dull moment with you two, eh?”
“You know us, Stacie. We try to keep things lively.”
“A little too lively, if you ask me,” Kim said, her eyes still darkened with the remnants of her anger.
I sighed. “It’s getting worse, and it’s been like that ever since we returned from Wales. I’m glad to be leaving the country for a while.”
Kim intertwined her fingers with mine. “You and me both, kiddo.”
Stacie moved toward the rear of the plane, and I heard her working in the compact galley.
“What about you, tiger?” I gave our joined hands a playful tug. “You were ready to pulverize that reporter.”
“I was ready to kill him.”
“That’s what worries me, Kimmy. If you remember, it was just a few months ago when you beat your former lover into pulp.”
“And, under the same circumstances, I’d do it again. She was hurting you. What was I supposed to do? Anyway, I’d rather not talk about her any more.” I could still hear traces of anger in her voice, and the expression that flitted across her face was a mixture of fury and fear. “It’s over now.”
“Yes, it is. Over and, I hope, forgotten.”
This reservoir of rage that Kim sometimes tapped into had me concerned. I longed to have her talk to me about it, but with Stacie moving up the aisle behind us, I let the issue drop.
“Is the cargo loaded?” I asked her.
“All set.”
“And I trust you stocked up on cashews this time.” Both Dad and I had a fondness for that particular snack, so it wasn’t unusual to have a critical shortage.
“I think I saw some just now when I checked the food supply. Let me make sure.” Stacie returned to the galley, and we could hear cupboards opening and closing. “I forgot that your father flew to San Francisco for a meeting last week.” Another door slammed shut. “Ah, here we go.” She was a bit breathless when she returned to our seats. “I’m afraid there are only two pounds left, PJ. That will have to hold you until we can ship some more over.”
“Only two pounds?” Kim shook her head. “She’ll have that polished off before we reach cruising altitude.”
“Oh, hush.” I tried to swat her, but she grabbed my wrist and held on.
“Take it easy, little one.” Her voice dropped to a seductive whisper, and she pressed the back of my hand to her lips. “You know I’m only kidding.”
It seemed to me that Stacie pretended not to notice Kim’s action and my sharp intake of breath. “I’ll let them know you’re ready for takeoff.” Seconds later, she returned, took her backward-facing seat, and fastened her seat belt, while I took a few more calming breaths.
Geez, Kimmy, what you do to me.
Should our desires get the best of us I knew the bed in the stateroom was available, although Kim and I had always been reluctant to use it. I don’t think we could get beyond the fact that we’d be making love in my father’s bed, even if we would be thirty thousand feet above the ground at the time.
The engines revved, we taxied, and took off. As soon as we reached cruising altitude, I pulled off my running shoes and took a blanket from the overhead rack, spreading it over us. Stacie released Pup, who promptly curled up on the floor between Kim and me.
We’d had time enough to gather our passports, clothes, and data we thought we would need for the trip, along with dosing Pup with a mild sedative and collecting his papers from the vet. Sandy Arnold, Kim’s former student, and a member of our Superstition Mountain expedition, had e-mailed us with a proposal to make this flight in order to lend him support on his current project. The message gave us little warning, but his brief highlights of the undertaking intrigued us enough to accept his invitation and join him, or at least find out in person what was happening. He provided us with just enough information to pique our curiosity, and he knew just the right amount of bait to use. We had to scurry to prepare for the project with no idea how long we would be gone.
This would be a different experience for Kim. In Arizona, where we searched for evidence of a lost tribe of Amazon warriors, she was the project leader and Sandy worked for her. Now, we were going to join his project. This time around, we’d be working for him. I had no doubt that we could handle it, though. We respected Sandy and appreciated his expertise in ancient Greek Archaeology.
I raised the arm dividing our seats, slid into Kim’s welcome embrace, and pulled the blanket up around us. With a contented sigh, I closed my eyes, feeling her gentle kiss on the top of my head and her fingers brushing through my hair.
“Get some rest,” she said. “I have a feeling that once we arrive we’ll be caught up in Sandy’s dream.”
“Mmm. You rest, too, love. You need to unwind.” I listened for her even breathing and felt her heartbeat settle into a slow, steady tempo. At least one of us had drifted into a trouble-free rest. My sleep, these days was anything but restful.
*
My thoughts returned to the past couple of weeks. Kim and I had decided to visit Dad in Boston, then spend a few weekends with him in Newport, Rhode Island, where we swam in the pool, took long walks on the beach, and relaxed in the summer home that had been in the Curtis family since before I was born.
Our visit to Boston was more than a pleasure trip for me. My experiences in Wales, earlier in the summer, had left me with some recurring troubles. I was able to suppress it for a while, but then I started having nightmares and flashbacks about the kidnapping and the attack. I think it scared Kim to realize that I was so rattled. She and Dad insisted that I seek professional help.
My father had a therapist in mind. He’d met Dr. Susanna Armstrong several years ago at a charity function near her home in Lexington, Massachusetts, and I think they had bumped into each other on and off since then, because his e-mails would occasionally mention her.
At first, I resented the idea and his parental interference, but Kim urged me to try it for all our sakes. To my astonishment, I discovered that I liked Susanna, as she insisted I call her, and she helped me feel at ease right away. Her area of expertise was not anxiety and trauma, however, so she recommended another psychiatrist. Scott Fleming was personable, gentle, and had an office right in Boston, close to Back Bay.
I made great progress during my sessions with Dr. Fleming, but I kept up my association and friendship with Susanna, visiting her a few times a month to talk informally in her home office, just off the town center with its Minuteman Statue on Lexington Green. Thick damask drapes muted outdoor traffic sounds, while we sat sipping juice in matching leather recliners. The gentle ticking of the Seth Thomas clock on the mantle over the gas fireplace encouraged me to relax and unburden myself with Susanna.
Now, hundreds of miles away from that refuge, I drifted above a blanket of muslin-colored clouds, snuggled in Kim’s loving embrace. I could easily remember Susanna, during an early visit, sitting across from me, her compassionate gray-green eyes holding my gaze, as she tapped her pen against her cheek, rimless glasses perched on the bridge of her thin, straight nose. She often wore pastel-colored silk blouses and dark slacks that showed off her slim figure. I wondered if Dad’s interest in her had been merely professional.
“You were saying, about your nightmares?” Susanna had prompted me.
“They’re usually one or the other, and sometimes they overlap.”
“The man in the cottage in Wales who attacked you, and the unwelcome advances from Kim’s former lover?”
I shuddered, remembering. “Yes. First that man and then Terry Simms. She and Kim were involved for several years until she left Kim for a younger woman.”
Susanna made some notes on her pad. “Do you want to talk about any of the attacks? The one with the man, perhaps?”
I sipped some juice and took a steadying breath. “He made crude remarks and watched me. Even when I was blindfolded, I could sense him, undressing me with his eyes.”
“I see.”
“He’d put his hands on me - on my butt and my breasts - whenever he could.” Tears formed at the corners of my eyes, and I paused to wipe them. “It’s one thing for that to happen when you’re free to walk away or avoid someone, but when you have no escape and your hands are tied, you feel pretty helpless.”
“That’s understandable. And you felt helpless?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever give up hope?”
“I got pretty desperate one night, after I heard them talking about killin
g me.”
“And the one man said he would rape you first?”
“Yeah, in his own delightful way.” My voice thickened. Susanna sat up quickly and handed me the box of tissues.
“How did you feel then?”
I blew my nose and considered the question. “Frightened, of course. But angry, too. Angry with myself. It was my fault I was in that position.”
Susanna seemed surprised. “You think you deserved to be raped?”
“No, not that. It was my fault I got kidnapped. I didn’t listen to Kim or our bodyguards. I went out on my own when I had been warned and knew better.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Guilty, I guess. I think I still do.”
“And the attack from Terry. What were you feeling when that happened?”
“With Terry, I felt stupid.”
“Oh?”
“I should have figured her out. She and Kim were…”
I paused to wipe my eyes. Frequent bouts of weepiness only added to my lack of confidence.
Susanna shifted in her chair. I noticed her forehead wrinkled in thought, probably trying to pull all the clues of my story together, much as I would assemble broken artifacts at a site lab and construct a plausible history for them. During the past weeks, we had talked about my first meeting with Kim in Arizona, our work at the Amazon burial site, and the realization that we had fallen in love with each other after starting as adversaries. I touched on my mother’s sudden death in a plane crash, my estrangement from Dad, and our reconciliation after some wild and wooly years of rebellion. I knew there were lots of juicy issues for a therapist to consider, but my immediate concern was Wales, so I focused on that.
“For quite a while, Kim wouldn’t let herself get interested in anyone, romantically. Then, as improbable as it seems, she fell for me. We managed to find the best in each other, and before we knew it, we’d broken down our barriers and fallen deeply in love.”
“Tell me more about her.” Susanna’s words had been all the encouragement I needed.
“Kimberly Blair saved my life - literally and figuratively. I can’t imagine living without her. She’s the smartest, kindest, most loyal, and most beautiful human being on the planet. When we’re together, the world is brighter and my life is complete and meaningful. She brings out the best in me, giving me direction and purpose. I love her with every fiber of my being.”
