“Thank you.” She chewed the dried meat and fed saliva-softened bites to the baby.
He had been without a woman way too long, Alex decided as he watched her fingers slide between her lips to extract a chewed morsel and push it into the baby’s mouth. The process struck him as intensely sensual.
“Have another one,” he said. Steeling himself for her reaction, he shifted so she couldn’t miss seeing the scar as he passed his last strip of jerky to her.
She accepted it, stared for a moment at his scarred cheek, and winced. “Did that hurt terribly?”
“Didn’t even know I was hit.” He thumbed the scar, and battle memories popped in his head like flashbulbs. With a severed tendon in his calf, Captain Faust had been unable to walk. Alex held the captain in a fireman’s carry and dogtrotted through the jungle. He felt liquid oozing onto his neck, touched it, and looked at his hand: blood. His face was numb, as if he’d received a giant Novocain shot. Exploring fingers touched bone and a sliver of shrapnel that had lodged in his jaw. The hot metal had cauterized the wound. “The pain came later.”
“Does it bother you now?”
“Itches in cold weather.” He mixed powdered coffee into the heated water and offered it to her. They passed it back and forth in companionable silence until the cup was empty. “Time to call the chopper.” He dipped into his backpack to retrieve his phone.
It wasn’t there.
Chapter 3
Alex dug through his backpack to see if the cell phone had slid to the bottom. No luck. Maybe he’d clipped it back on his utility belt. Not there, either. Thirty-one was too young to be forgetting where he put things.
Pia and her baby were playing with the all-purpose aluminum pot Alex used as a cup and cooking utensil. Each time she handed it to the boy, he waved it, tossed it onto the sleeping bag and, laughing and babbling, waited for her to hand it back. She glanced at Alex. “Is something wrong?”
“You move my phone?”
“I thought you put it there.” She pointed to his backpack.
“Yeah, and it’s gone.”
“Gone?”
Swallowing his frustration, he dumped the backpack. Together, they sorted through its contents, lining everything up on the sleeping bag.
On hands and knees, the baby headed for the array. Pia diverted him with the aluminum pot. “He is an inquisitive child. He might have pulled your phone from the bag.” She sifted through loose snow where the compact unit could have fallen and gotten buried, then ran her fingers along the folds of the sleeping bag.
Alex lifted the edges of the Mylar flooring to look underneath. “Damned thing couldn’t just walk off.” He didn’t want to be suspicious, didn’t want her to be anything other than a stranded young mother, dependent on him and grateful for his help. But doubt pulled at him. “You didn’t use it and forget to put it back?”
“No, sir.” Her big eyes opened wider.
Even if she were something other than what she claimed, what would she gain by rendering herself incommunicado? Maybe he had inadvertently pulled the phone from the backpack while getting something else. Or the baby might have gotten his hands on it as she’d suggested. “I don’t mean to sound gruff. But without that phone, we’re stranded.”
The baby had crawled to where the backpack’s contents were laid out. He started scattering them. Pia scooped him up and turned back to Alex. “What are we going to do?”
Without some clue, they would never find the phone in the snowdrifts. He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “Ever worn snowshoes?”
“Until this trip, I’d never even seen real snow.”
“There’s a weekender cabin we can reach in about three hours. If someone’s there, we’ll use their phone. If not, we’ll borrow the place.” He shook out the thermal undershirt that had been a part of her makeshift pillow and picked up the thermal bottoms in which she had slept. “Better slip these on.”
She set her baby on the sleeping bag, gave him the aluminum pot to play with, and accepted the undergarments. “Thank you.”
Alex turned to the baby and again demonstrated his wristwatch’s chimes. Fabric rustled behind him, and for several moments the only sounds were the baby’s delighted gibberish and the watch’s silvery dinging. Then Pia, fully dressed, stepped into his range of vision.
When everything had been packed and the rolled-up sleeping bag lashed to his backpack, Alex crawled through the snow tunnel to the outside and pulled his equipment through. “Pass Freddy to me.” He cuddled the baby while Pia wriggled out.
She reclaimed her son and wrapped his blanket around his snowsuit and over its hood so that only his eyes showed. Standing quietly, she waited while Alex freed the Mylar, cleared it of snow, and folded it to fit in his backpack.
Snowshoes in hand, he approached her. “It’s about five miles to the cabin,” he said as he guided first one and then her other foot into the snowshoe bindings. “You tell me if I’m moving too fast, if you need more rest.” He fastened the bindings and checked the tension on the straps. “You’re set.”
Tentatively, she tested the racquet-like contraptions. “It is like walking on water.”
He shouldered his backpack and rifle, stepped into his cross-country skis, and buckled the safety bindings. “Better let me carry Freddy.” He held out his arms.
She shook her head. “He will feel safer with me.”
* * *
Alex would have made book she’d change her mind about carrying the baby after half an hour, but in spite of fatigue shadows under her eyes, she refused to surrender him. Each time they halted to rest, Alex spread his sleeping bag over the snow. She always plopped down and lay quietly, motionless other than attending the baby, but she never complained, never asked to extend the rest periods or make them more frequent. He noticed her rubbing the thumb on her right hand and remembered the fused joint and flared tip. The deformed bone probably ached in the cold.
He was grateful that she had the stamina to keep up. A threatening bank of dark clouds had formed on the western horizon and was moving their way at disturbing speed. With no communication capability and no food, they couldn’t afford to be caught in another storm.
Three hours of hiking brought them to the crest of a hill from which they could see the cabin across a gully and a gently sloping meadow. Alex heaved a relieved sigh. The clouds now filled half the sky; if they brought more weather, at least he and his charges would have shelter. Maybe some rations.
Approaching from the rear of the cabin and plodding around to the front, they passed a wall of wood-framed windows comprised of small panes secured with putty. The absence of chimney smoke told Alex the cabin was deserted, but he knocked anyway. Back at the window wall, he scraped away enough putty with his knife to lift out a glass pane. He reached inside to unlock the window, crawled through, and opened the door from inside. “We’ll borrow the cabin overnight. Tomorrow, I’ll hoof it to the highway.”
Pia frowned. “You will do what?”
“Hike out.” He would have to watch the American slang. “Find help.”
She pointed to the fireplace. “Shall I build a fire?”
“I’ll do it. Why don’t you and Freddy check the kitchen? See if there’s any food?”
Tempered glass doors sealed the fireplace against chimney downdrafts. A brass latch near the top held the folding doors in place, and corrosion made it stick. Alex hammered it open with the handle of his knife, ignited kindling under logs, and savored the smell of wood smoke as he nursed the fire to a roaring flame. He found a pillow in the bedroom and stuffed it into the gap where he had removed a window pane. Then he headed for the kitchen to search for a large pot. They would have to melt snow for water.
He found Pia balancing her baby on her hip and looking in the refrigerator. Like the cook stove, the refrigerator was butane fueled. Meat and vegetables filled the freezer compartment. With her help, Alex prepared a meal of pan-fried sirloin steak, hash browns, and boiled green peas. They
dined sitting on the floor around the coffee table with Pia holding the baby in her lap. She had found some Tang, mixed it, and poured it into wineglasses. “Tropical wine,” she said, and raised her glass to clink with his.
“So this is your first experience with snow,” Alex said. “Your first time in the U.S.?”
“My first, yes. Is Colorado your home?”
“Nearest thing I have to a home. But how’m I going to learn about you if I talk about myself?”
“How else am I to learn about you?” She didn’t sound argumentative, just inquisitive. “Does your family live here?”
He nodded. “After Mom died—I was eleven—my grandparents took care of me. My granddad had retired from the Army. They have a ranch near Grand Junction.”
She looked sympathetic. “What about your father?”
“My old man was career military. Like Gramps.”
Not precisely true, he thought. They’d both had Army careers, but not at all alike. His grandfather, an infantry officer commissioned during the years between Korea and Vietnam, had plodded a conventional professional path. In contrast, his father’s career had twisted and veered. Starting as a helicopter pilot, he wrangled a transfer to Intelligence and became a field operative, a flamboyant vocation with limited advancement potential. Pia, however, wouldn’t be interested in all that. “Dad was gone a lot.”
Pia’s eyes took on a liquid sheen in the firelight. “How sad.”
“I didn’t see him much, but he was always hovering in the background, trying to manage my life.”
Alex had disappointed his father by dropping out of college in his senior year to enlist in the Army. During his nine years of service, they had only seen each other once until his father visited him in the hospital. But he’d felt the elder Bryson’s influence and fought it bitterly. His first duty assignment was the Quartermaster Corps, the Army’s supply and housekeeping arm, and he never doubted that was his father’s doing, to make his enlistment as boringly danger-free as possible. He’d countered by volunteering for Special Forces training.
He shook off the memory and refocused on Pia. “Tell me about you.”
“There is little to tell. I am just a simple girl who did some foolish things.” She announced her intention to make coffee, gathered their plates and eating utensils, and headed for the kitchen.
Alex dumped more snow into their water pot, packing it tightly. Then he played with the baby. Lying on his back on the floor with the little fellow seated on his chest, he bounced and twisted, pulling uproarious laughter from his playmate. Hugging the warm, small body, he rolled so that the boy was on the floor and he, on all fours, loomed over the youngster. “Gotcha, Freddy.”
Babbling, the baby reached for Alex’s beard, only inches away.
“You like that?” Alex let him grasp a double handful of curly facial hair. “You like Alex’s beard?”
Stringing vowels and consonants together randomly, the baby tugged with both hands.
“You’re not that far from growing your own beard, little man. When you do, let—ouch!” Alex put a restraining hand over the miniature fingers. “Easy, tiger. You’re hurting old Alex.”
“Ax,” the baby cried. “Ax!” He tugged again and launched himself into peals of laughter.
“It’s Alex, little buddy.” Alex lifted him off the floor and held him at face level. “A-lex. A-lex.”
“Ax,” the baby responded, more laughter bubbling out. “Ax!”
Alex pulled him close.
Pia walked in carrying a tray with the coffee pot and two cups. “What are you doing?”
“Getting acquainted.” Alex eased the baby onto the floor and shifted to the couch.
Pia set the tray on the coffee table, filled a cup, and mixed in powdered coffee creamer until it looked like the instant Alex had mixed on the trail. She waited until he sipped and pronounced it excellent, then poured herself a cup and sat on the floor by his feet. From there she could watch the baby without turning away from Alex.
The baby crawled to her. He gripped her blouse and pulled himself to his feet.
She kissed his cheek and cooed to him until he plopped back onto the floor and crawled to Alex. Grasping Alex’s leg, he hoisted himself erect.
“Too cold on the floor, Freddy?” Alex lifted the baby onto his lap.
A serious expression settled on the youngster’s face. He ran his hands over Alex’s beard, tugged, then pulled harder.
“Not used to scarred, hairy faces, little man?” Alex slid a finger over a miniature cheek. It felt as smooth and soft as a kitten’s belly.
Pia stood and offered the baby his oversized pacifier. “There is oatmeal in the kitchen. I will feed him and put him down for an afternoon nap.” She lifted him into her arms and headed for the kitchen.
Alex finished his coffee and stepped outside. Dark, low-hanging clouds now completely blanketed the sky. They looked pregnant with snow. Where the Warrior River flowed slowly enough for its surface to freeze, its banks were high and sheer. He would be in serious trouble if a snowstorm caught him while he was scaling them. Even if he got through before the storm hit, it would ground the company helicopter, leaving Pia and her son stranded. How long would the front hang around, making travel dangerous?
A satellite dish rode the cabin’s roofline, and he’d noted a television set by the fireplace, so there had to be an electrical generator somewhere. Maybe he could crank it up, catch a weather report. A sheltered enclosure behind the cabin housed the generator. It took him a long time, working with only a rock and his utility knife as tools, but he disconnected the battery and lugged it inside to warm by the fireplace.
Pia’s clothing, freshly washed, hung from the wood-slatted backs of two chairs, drying in the fireplace’s heat. He found her in the kitchen, draped in a thick wrap-around robe. Whoever had left it in the cabin was much larger. The robe hung to her ankles, and she had rolled the sleeves back over her wrists.
She had cooked oatmeal and was trying to spoon it into her baby’s mouth. He kept turning his head and batting at the spoon.
“Freddy doesn’t like your cooking?” Alex tousled the kid’s hair and received a broad, baby-toothed grin in return.
Pia dropped the spoon into the bowl and pushed her short hair back with both hands. “He has to eat. My breasts are no longer sufficient.”
Alex scooped a dab of oatmeal from the dish with his finger and popped it into his own mouth. “What did you put in it?”
“The instructions said water and a pinch of salt.”
He heated a half-cup of water and mixed in coffee lightener, laced it with sugar, and stirred it into the gooey oatmeal. “Maybe he’ll like it this way.”
Pia tried coaxing a bite into the baby’s mouth. He refused to taste it.
“Let me have a shot.” Alex turned his back and transferred the thinned, sweetened oatmeal into a bowl of a different size and color. “Freddy, look what I’ve got.” Moving the oatmeal-laden spoon in a circuitous route, first toward his own mouth, then toward the baby’s, he always stopped short of contact. Finally, when it was inches from his mouth, Alex lunged and wrapped his lips around the spoon. He pulled it back and turned it to show that it was empty. “Yummy.” He smacked his lips.
Childish laughter filled the kitchen.
Zigging and zagging, the refilled spoon approached the baby’s mouth. He latched on to gulp the sugary oatmeal, and his face registered pleasant surprise.
Over and over Alex repeated the game. Each time, he moved the spoon in a seemingly aimless path that ended at the baby’s mouth.
“He likes you,” Pia said. “He does not usually take to people.”
“I have no trouble with kids. It’s their mothers who can’t stand me.”
“I do not believe that.” She beamed him a high-wattage smile.
Lunging forward, the baby dipped his hand into the oatmeal. He extended it to her. “Pee,” he shouted. “Pee.”
“Your turn,” Alex said. He mimed sp
ooning oatmeal into Pia’s mouth. When he saw how hilarious the baby found this, he began alternating between mother and child with the gyrating spoon. “So you’re from Colombia,” he said as he coaxed more oatmeal into the baby’s mouth. “What part?”
“Amazonas Province.”
“You grew up in the Amazon rain forest?
“I did not grow up there. It is merely where I was born. My mother died when I was very young, and we—my father and I—moved to Belén, a small town in Peru. It is only a short distance from Iquitos.”
Alex remembered Iquitos from his time in Peru. He’d been told it was the world’s largest city that could not be reached by road. “Was your father Peruvian?”
The Descent From Truth Page 3
