MORE THAN THE MOON

by A Rosendale

“Ready to explore?”

  “After this caffeine,” she mumbled.

  When the mugs were empty, Dirk reclaimed his T-shirt and sandals and waited for Alma to don a bikini and shorts. Groaning with desire, he ran his fingers over her bare midriff. She smiled in pleasure, kissed him teasingly, and led the way to the beach.

  They walked hand in hand in the warm surf for a mile before Dirk drew up short.

  “This is gorgeous,” he muttered, staring at a rocky, secluded cove filled with serenely clear water. “Come on.” He kicked off his shoes, tossed the shirt to the sand and ran out into the lapping waves. Alma followed a few steps behind.

  Swimming and splashing through the cove left them breathless with laughter. Dirk wrapped an arm around Alma and drew her to him in the water. His kiss was hot and salty.

  * * *

  They lay on the sand later, regaining their breath from an energy-sapping dip.

  “I love you, Dr. Decker-Travers,” Dirk muttered as he squinted in the bright sunlight.

  “I love you, Dirk.”

  Returning to the hut to shower together and wash the sand away, they arrived at the patio just as the scientists were returning from a day of diving. Without preamble, drinks were poured, random congratulations exchanged, and the party began in earnest.

  If Dirk had learned anything in his time among academics, it was that scientists could celebrate with the best. He noted that while Alma nursed the same pina colada the whole night, Attenborough and his colleagues put away drink after drink.

  By the time Alma proposed retiring, the scientists had utterly forgotten the occasion. She kissed Steven on the cheek in thanks for the vacation. He replied by kissing her lips, shot Dirk a drunken apologetic shrug, and returned to the torch lit party. Alma rolled her eyes and took Dirk’s hand.

  * * *

  When he’d claimed two weeks ago that he’d miss Alma, Dirk had never imagined the ache that would fill his chest. Ten days in Boston without her became torturous until Vasquez called with an assignment. While distracted, the ache had eased, but his thoughts still turned to her regularly.

  Now, standing on the end of a pier on the Seattle waterfront, he was filled with anticipation. He’d been able to track down the boat’s arrival point. It was due to arrive midmorning, but he’d been here since nine o’clock with no sign. A café within sight of the pier was open. He laid a bouquet across a table and slumped in a chair to wait.

  It was nearly five when the white research vessel approached the pier. He tossed his empty coffee cup, gathered the bouquet and headed into the cloudy evening.

  Alma stepped off the gangway amidst a handful of other scientists. They stood in a group on the dock exchanging hugs. Dirk enjoyed the shimmer of her engagement ring as she wished her colleagues a good summer. It wasn’t until she started toward shore with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and suitcase in tow that she felt eyes watching. Glancing up, she found Dirk smiling from shore, a bouquet of red roses in hand. A wide grin spread across her face and she hurried toward him, dropped both pieces of luggage, and flung her arms around him.

  * * *

  “Dirk!” Ava greeted in surprise. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Alma apologized. “I forgot to call.”

  “It’s okay. It’s good to see you, dear!” She hugged her daughter, then Dirk. “I’ll send your father to set up the boat as soon as he gets in from the garden.”

  “Don’t worry about,” Dirk assured her. “We’ll manage.”

  “Alright, then. We’re grilling burgers for dinner. I’ll throw an extra patty on.”

  “That sounds great!”

  He and Alma followed her through the house to the patio. William was crouched in the garden bed amongst a throng of green vines.

  “The kids are here,” Ava called across the yard.

  He turned and stood. A smile lit his gray eyes. “How was the expedition, Alma?”

  “Good, Dad.”

  They met in a warm embrace.

  “Dirk!” he exclaimed in surprise as he shook the younger man’s hand.

  “Dr. Decker. Sorry for the intrusion.”

  “It’s my fault, Dad. I meant to call before I left Boston, but everything happened in a blur.”

  He waved away the inconvenience and tossed his gloves to a workbench on the patio where Ava was pressing burgers to the grill with a spatula. He kissed his wife’s cheek and leaned against a support column.

  “We have some news,” Alma announced a little awkwardly. She waited for Ava and William to look at her curiously. “Dirk and I are engaged.”

  After a brief moment of consideration, beaming smiles crossed their faces.

  “That’s great!” Ava exclaimed, repeating her enthusiastic hugs.

  “Congratulations!” William added. He kissed his daughter’s cheek and pumped Dirk’s hand.

  * * *

  After dinner, Alma helped Ava clean up while William motioned Dirk to the yard.

  “This is Balvenie single malt scotch, aged 50 years,” William explained as he filled a snifter and passed it to Dirk. He filled another snifter. “I’ve had it stowed away for just such an occasion.” Their glasses clinked and they sipped the delicacy in silence.

  Dirk waited anxiously for the speech he anticipated. But William never broke the silence until he said, “Congratulations,” again.

  “That’s it? No threatening speech, no warnings? Nothing?” he demanded incredulously.

  William laughed. “I’m sure you’re aware that Alma is more than capable of taking care of herself. You don’t need a threatening speech from me. I’m sure you’ll do alright.”

  “Alright? I’m terrified! I think about her constantly! I dream about her when I’m wide-awake! I’ve never felt so scared in my life!”

  A gentle chuckle rumbled in the night. “That’s what makes me certain you’ll be fine.”

  His confidence bolstered Dirk.

  “You’ll be fine,” he repeated, slapping him on the shoulder.

  Chapter 31

  “It’s nice to be the Mediterranean sun!” Alma exclaimed as they crossed the Piazza San Marco.

  Dirk laughed as he took her hand and led her into the narrow, stone streets of Venice. They walked over a bridge in silence before Dirk said, “Do you want to open wedding negotiations?”

  She laughed at his phrasing. “Okay. You first.”

  “Well, I was thinking an outdoor affair.”

  “I agree.”

  “By the ocean.”

  “Seconded.”

  “And-” His ideas were cut short as a voice called out from behind them.

  Three Carabinieri were approaching down the narrow walkway. “Signore! Signore!”

  The voice was accented, yet familiar. But Dirk didn’t have time to place it before they were a few feet away. Caps pulled low over their brows obscured their faces in shadow.

  “Did you drop something, signore?”

  Dirk took his hand from Alma’s to pat his pockets. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sure you did.” The man’s voice changed from an Italian lilt to the harsh accent of the Middle East as he extended an object toward Dirk. It was a paperback copy of Monuments Men.

  Realization hit him like a train and he instantly reached for Alma, but one of the speaker’s companions was already gripping her arm, pulling her into an immobilizing embrace.

  “Hey!” she exclaimed indignantly.

  Dirk’s momentary distraction for her safety cost him a staggering blow to the face. Two men wrestled him to the ancient paving stones. “Don’t touch her!” he ordered, struggling fiercely. “You bastards! Leave her alone!”

  The third man’s painful grunt made it obvious that Alma was fighting back, too. Realizing her best defense was to attract attention, she started yelling. The assailants recognized the effort, but with Dirk’s forceful exertions occupying his two colleagues, the single man was left to struggle with her alone.
r />   Finally, the man with his knee in Dirk’s back managed to free a hand to wield a handgun. He slammed the barrel across his captive’s cheek, leaving a deep laceration. The blow stunned him. When he came around, the barrel was shoved into his ribs.

  “Stop!” the English speaker ordered over Alma’s cries for help. When she didn’t quiet, he ground the gun into Dirk’s ribs, extracting a painful grunt from his victim. “Stop it!”

  Her yelling ceased instantly. “Don’t hurt him!” she begged. Her voice was surprisingly strong and confident for the terrifying confrontation she faced.

  Dirk tried to turn his head to see her, but a hand was pressing him into the stones. “Leave her alone! She has no part in this!” he growled.

  His words went unheeded. The last thing he saw was the face of the man who’d tortured and questioned him in Iraq. Then a familiar black hood was whisked over his head. The fabric smelled of sweat and desert sand.

  * * *

  Footsteps and voices echoed. Dirk couldn’t see where they were, but he imagined it was a vast open chamber. A handful of voices talked in Arabic nearby. He was shoved onto a hard bench of some sort, hands bound with plastic cuffs behind him.

  “Alma?” he called quietly. The single word awarded him with a sharp rap across the head that left him dizzy.

  “I’m okay,” Alma’s voice replied from several feet away.

  “Don’t tell them any-” Another blow, this one to the stomach, stole his breath.

  “I won’t,” she assured him. He heard the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh.

  “Don’t you dare touch her!” he cried breathlessly.

  “Shut up, Mr. Travers,” an accented voice ordered. “If that’s even your real name.” The voice was so familiar it sent a tremor of memorable pain through Dirk.

  “Let her go,” he demanded. “She has nothing to do with this.”

  “’Alma Decker’,” the man said, as if reading it.

  Dirk realized he had their passports at his disposal.

  “She’s pretty.”

  “Don’t touch me,” Alma’s voice growled.

  Dirk cursed the hood over his eyes.

  “Feisty, too,” the man said approvingly. “Tell me, Alma, who exactly is this man? Who does he work for?”

  “He’s…”

  Dirk could imagine her looking to him for guidance, but he could offer none.

  “He’s a reporter,” she answered finally.

  The statement shocked even Dirk. He had no idea she’d heard him cry out in his sleep for two months last year, declaring he was a reporter.

  “A reporter?” the voice repeated in disbelief. “A reporter?”

  Footsteps echoed in the space, highlighted by the gentle slosh of water.

  “Perhaps you’d like to be reminded of our time together, Travers. And your woman gets to watch. Maybe you’ll both be more forthcoming with information.”

  Before the man had hardly stopped speaking, cold water was pouring over Dirk, soaking the hood and making it impossible to draw breath. He gasped and sputtered, eventually hoping for the solace of unconsciousness. But the Arabs had learned and cruelly managed to stop just as he was on the cusp of passing out. They allowed his body a few moments to process a couple of oxygen-rich breaths before beginning the process anew.

  “Who is he?” The Arab’s repeated question punched through the throbbing pulse filling Dirk’s head.

  “He’s just a reporter!” Alma screamed. “Stop! Stop, please!”

  Finally, the water stopped and Dirk was shoved to the ground, ribs heaving with the effort of breathing through the damp material.

  It was a long while before the throbbing of his head subsided and his heart rate returned to relatively normal. Still not prepared to test his strength against the dizziness he expected, he listened carefully.

  “Alma?” he called softly.

  “I’m here. Are you okay?” Her soft voice echoed in the chamber, but he thought he could pinpoint it about ten feet to his right.

  Ignoring her question, he said, “Are you alright? Have they hurt you?”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Over by the door, out of earshot.”

  “Are you blindfolded?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I need you to be my eyes. Where are we?”

  “It’s an old church. I think it’s under construction or renovation or something. There are scaffolds and tarps everywhere and everything’s dusty, like maybe it hasn’t been worked on in a while. The pews are scattered all around.”

  ‘Pews,’ Dirk thought. He’d been perched on a pew, not a bench.

  “Are there any tools?”

  “Not that I can see. There are some old vases and ceramic figurines, but no tools.”

  “And you?”

  “My hands are tied behind me, like yours.”

  “But they haven’t hurt you?” he repeated.

  “No.”

  He formed a vague outline of the church they were in. “You’re doing so well, Alma. Everything will be okay.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Be brave, okay?”

  “They’re coming back.”

  Almost instantly, the hood was ripped from his head. Even though stained glass windows dimly lit the church, the sudden light blinded him, made worse by the bright torch one of the men bore. Another Muslim knelt, pinning Dirk to the floor with a knee to the back.

  “Do you know what happened after you left us?” the speaker asked. Dirk couldn’t see what he was doing with his face pressed to the stones, but he could hear the metallic clink of steel on stone.

  “No. And I don’t care,” he muttered.

  “The Americans bombed our village. I imagine you had something to do with that. The timing was impeccable.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His hand was splayed open and sudden memories of a similar situation rushed to mind. He started struggling vehemently, but to no avail.

  “No!” Alma cried as realization dawned.

  “Hmm, you treated our brand very well. Perhaps this time it won’t fade so well.”

  White hot metal was pressed to his scarred palm. Unable to resist, his hand was closed over the rod. Dirk’s eyes squeezed shut and he clenched his jaw against the pain. Nothing could stop the moan of anguish that vibrated in his chest.

  Even when the rod was removed, taking a layer of scorched flesh with it, the burning sensation continued. He didn’t even recognize the moment he was released, so consumed was he in the fried nerves firing up his arm.

  “Who are you?” the voice asked again.

  “No one,” he muttered through clenched teeth, eyes still closed. “No one. Just a reporter.”

  Someone nudged him in the ribs and he reluctantly opened his eyes.

  “You are the most stubborn American I’ve ever met. You know, my wife and children were killed when your military decimated our home.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dirk muttered sincerely. The casualties of his job were the worst part. He especially hated to hear children had been involved.

  “You will be.” The speaker motioned to Alma. The man who’d held Dirk to the floor cast a wide grin and eagerly wove through the pews to take her arm.

  “Leave her alone,” Dirk ordered, finally sitting up, then awkwardly gaining his feet.

  The English speaker, who seemed to be in charge, shook his head regrettably. “I do not sanction the abuse of women, but…but since you will not tell me the truth and your actions murdered my family, I will see to it that you suffer the same heartbreak.”

  “No!” He stumbled forward to protect Alma, but a third man with a torch blocked his passage with the flames.

  “Do as you wish,” the leader ordered the man holding Alma. Then he walked away as if to avoid an unpleasant experience.

  The man holding Alma grinned wider and reached for her shirt. He ripped open the buttons, dismayed to fin
d she was wearing an undershirt. Regardless, he shoved her onto the pew and moved to straddle her.

  Dirk’s furious pleas did nothing to stop the action. The torchbearer grabbed his arm and continued blocking him with the fire.

  As the assailant raised himself onto the pew, Alma lifted a leg, planted her foot on his chest, and kicked him away. He stumbled back, tripping over his feet and uneven stones, and toppled backwards over a neighboring pew.

  At the same instant, Dirk wrenched out of the torchbearer’s grip and charged. The two of them careened toward the stone wall with a blaze of sparks and flames. They stumbled into a scaffold, which began rocking violently with the impact. The Arab dropped the torch, which skittered benignly across the granite floor. He brought his fists down over Dirk’s back, but his aim was awry and the blow did nothing but bruise his back. Dirk drove his shoulder into the man, pushing him into the base of the scaffold.

  “Dirk!” Alma called, warning him of impending danger in the nick of time. He backed away from the man hurriedly just as a heavy stone from the platform above tumbled down to crush to the Arab’s skull.

  But the stone wasn’t the only object at gravity’s mercy. While they’d been struggling, the other man had recovered from his tumble, lifted a clay vase, and brought it crashing down on Dirk’s head.

  * * *

  The church was dark but for the subtle moonlight gleaming through the stained glass. Dirk heard a low moan. It took a moment to realize it was his own.

  “Dirk?” Alma said quietly. “Are you awake?”

  He tried to answer, but only another moan sounded from his lips. His head ached painfully as he tried to sit up against the wall. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him, but he managed to quell it by shutting his eyes and taking deep breaths.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve been better,” he answer honestly, voicing cracking. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes. They’ve left me alone since…”

  There were so many words that could have filled out the sentence: ‘since I was almost raped’, ‘since you managed to kill a man’, ‘since you were knocked out’.

  “But…”

  He blinked at her in the dark, trying to narrow his vision down to one set of images.