Lost Girls

by George D. Shuman

  A hundred feet away and behind the foundation walls, Sherry in bra and panties stood listening to the sound of Bedard’s boots in the dirt. He was waiting for her to strip; had started toward her, and she flexed her right hand, knew that if needed she could make her second finger go rigid. Tucked slightly beneath the first, it was called the spear hand and it was deadly to an opponent’s throat or eyes.

  “All of it!” he screamed again, but then they heard the rifle shot. “Guard them!” Bedard yelled, as he ran from the cellar.

  The leader of the parachutists also heard the shot. It was an ominous sound and explained the missing signal from one of his men. He pointed in the direction of it and nodded, watching two of his team members split and head toward the entrance to the quarry. He removed a rectangular box from his backpack—small, about the size of a loaf of bread—and found the switch that activated a pin-dot red light. He buried it under vegetation and slipped the rifle off his shoulder, motioned to the remaining members of the team, and they moved forward, beginning to work their way through the outbuildings toward the foundation of the cathedral.

  “Bring him,” Bedard shouted, enraged.

  Sherry, still standing in her underwear, heard men laboring under the weight of a body. A moment later they dropped it at her feet. She heard the man moan; he was alive.

  “I think you know something you are not telling us, Miss Moore.”

  She didn’t move and he slapped her. Sherry remained expressionless and he slapped her again.

  “Perhaps then you will tell us one more fortune before you die.” Bedard reeked of fear and aggression.

  Sherry heard the hammer snap back on Bedard’s pistol, then an explosion deafened her right ear. Through the ringing she heard screams from the women kneeling not ten feet away. She prayed no one would move, that no one would dare to run.

  Bedard grabbed her and threw her facedown on the dead man. His belt buckle jabbed her stomach; his clothing had heavy zippers and snaps, the coarse ballistic shoulder holster. Her face was against his chest, her right arm over his collarbone. It was wet and warm over the bullet hole above his heart. She could feel her panties soaking up the blood from the shot he’d taken in the hip when he was still outside.

  “Touch him, you bitch.” Bedard’s voice was low and cruel. He pulled back the hammer on his gun once more.

  Sherry grabbed the dead man’s right hand with her left. She lay there upon him. He was warm and ever so human, she thought, catching a flash of light and then hands reaching out for him, she saw light in the jungle, the entrance of a tunnel; a man to the right was holding an antiquated Kalashnikov, the man to his left, there were three in all, now was carrying a radio; the tunnel was lit by strings of bare lightbulbs, the walls were a combination of rock and smatterings of luminous marble reflecting in the light; a woman, herself, in white brassiere and pale blue panties; a man with a dead white eye, dark-complexioned, automatic pistol, a .45-caliber Colt in his right hand; a man’s face, streaked dark with paint, his face was large and chiseled, his eyes pale green; a younger man with red hair, a map, the sparkle of moonlight on black sea; the silhouette of jagged coastline; a dark-haired woman in a hospital bed, she was smiling, holding a crying baby smeared with blood; spires of a cathedral; bare feet of the nearly naked woman; his own hand shaking in front of his face; thumbnail scratching dirt; nothing…

  Sherry tried to think. What did she say to Bedard? He would kill them all anyhow.

  Bedard grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Who is out there?” he shouted, gun to her head.

  A cell phone rang. Bedard snatched it from a pocket. “What?” he screamed.

  There was a long moment of silence as he listened. His face must have registered alarm because someone came forward.

  “Commandeur?” a man said.

  Bedard’s voice was different, somehow shaken. “The palace has ordered all police commanders to their stations.”

  “Martial law?” the man asked.

  “I do not know,” Bedard said. “They have been instructed to account for their men, Préval has closed the airports. Nothing flies in or out.”

  “What do you wish, Commandeur?”

  “Get the helicopter ready. No, first get that detonator for me.”

  “The engineer, Commandeur?”

  “Kill him. Just bring me the fucking thing.”

  Gunfire erupted outside the cathedral. Bedard ordered men to respond. The shooting continued outside, then a mighty explosion rocked the ground.

  Smoke poured into the cellar. It was chaos after that, automatic weapons fire, but now it was from within. Bedard’s remaining guards sprayed the entrance, Sherry heard them shouting in Creole, but she thought there were fewer of them now. She thought they were taking hits.

  Bedard grabbed her once more, wrapped an arm around her neck with inhuman strength, and pivoted her in the direction of the fire. She could feel the heat of his body against her. She went rigid.

  The firing suddenly stopped.

  “Let her go,” a man shouted in English. Sherry turned her head, surprised. She sensed the smoke was clearing.

  Bedard backed her into the corner, his men on both sides. “I am taking your blind woman,” Bedard said. “Matteo,” he screamed over his shoulder. “The detonator!”

  “Let her go or you die,” the American said calmly.

  Sherry heard footsteps running; someone came up behind them and handed something to Bedard.

  Sherry felt him slip the pistol back in his holster.

  “Perhaps I will kill us all.” Bedard raised his arm over his head. “We are surrounded by explosives.”

  Sherry let her head fall forward, chin to her own chest. She wondered if she could get hold of his gun. It was right there in the holster on his right hip.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the man said again. Sherry had already matched a face to that voice. A face she had seen only minutes before, in the final few seconds of the dead soldier’s life. A face she had once imagined on a mountain called Denali.

  She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised by the calm in Metcalf’s voice. He had not come all this way to lose. Metcalf would not show emotion.

  “Put down your weapons, you fools,” Bedard snarled. “Put them down or you all die.”

  “Barrage radio interference,” Metcalf said evenly. “Or maybe you would understand it as random frequency blocking.”

  “Babble,” Bedard mocked.

  “Not babble,” Metcalf said calmly. “Your signal has been jammed. Your detonator is worthless. Kill them.”

  Rifles cracked from the area of the cells, bodies fell around them with no return fire.

  “One more chance,” Metcalf said.

  “Fuck…” Bedard managed to get out, but then he lurched sideways as a bullet struck his shoulder, half spinning him with Sherry still in his arm. She filled her lungs and snapped her head back, striking Bedard’s bandaged throat.

  He did not let go, but it was enough for Sherry to use his weight and momentum against him, her knee sweeping his left leg until he fell rolling on his back. She felt his arm moving for the pistol, but something heavy landed on him, pinning him down, and Carol Bishop yelled, “Die!” as Aleksandra drove the point of Yousy’s bone hairpin through his good eye.

  31

  COAST OF HAITI

  Rolly King George sat in the pilot’s chair on the flying bridge of his Bertram, water lapping softly against the side of the boat, sky above a virtual dome of tranquil stars. They were afloat off the coast of southwestern Haiti. It had been thirty minutes since they’d gotten word the KC-130 Hercules had dropped men over Contestus.

  Brigham was below in the cabin, speaking on his cell phone with someone in the United States. He had been communicating with someone ever since they left Frenchman’s Cove in Jamaica almost four hours ago.

  The cabin door opened and closed below, and George heard the handrail rattle as Brigham began to climb the ladder to the bridge.
<
br />   “Take us in, Rolly,” the retired admiral said. Brigham stood behind, his hand on the inspector’s shoulder.

  “They’ll meet us on the beach in Tiburon harbor.”

  “All of them, sir?”

  “All but one,” Brigham said throatily, looking out at the random spray of stars on the horizon. These were emotions the admiral hadn’t experienced for quite some time, the love and fear that a brotherhood of arms never talked about. And then there was Sherry Moore. She was all but a daughter to him. His wife had died. His parents and siblings were all gone. Sherry was all he had and he was ever so glad to have her back.

  Captain Metcalf loaded the women and his soldiers into one of the trucks on the compound. There was no plan to take any Haitian citizens off the island until Hettie begged them to. She had but one request, that they stop at her shanty in the harbor long enough for her to retrieve something.

  Brigham and the inspector watched as the truck’s headlights appeared and stopped momentarily in the village. They did not expect resistance; even the Haitian policemen were to have been recalled to their stations and should pose no threat. But Inspector George had brought arms for both and they were ready to defend themselves if need be.

  In only minutes, however, it was Captain Metcalf who ran the front tires of a truck into the salt water and jumped out, unloading men and women from the back. Brigham was over the rail and running to meet Sherry. The soldiers carried the body of their comrade aboard, then Pioche’s body, as Carol helped Aleksandra along behind. Hettie, with Amaud’s picture under her arm, held Yousy’s hand as Rolly King George helped them through the gate in the transom.

  Then a small creature came darting across the beach and Yousy screamed, “Chaser!” as Hettie pulled her away. Metcalf leaned over the side of the boat and scooped up the dog as Rolly King George eased the Bertram into deep water.

  32

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  Sherry sat in her sunroom overlooking the Delaware, Christmas music playing softly on the speakers. The house smelled of pine from two live trees and countless wreaths.

  She’d hired a local florist to decorate.

  She wondered how many years it had been since the old house hosted a Christmas celebration. She knew nothing of the former owners, but it had been more than a decade that she’d been here. More than a decade since a red ribbon or anything remotely like it had festooned the front door.

  Why, she couldn’t say, but it had never felt right to her before. She couldn’t say she had memories about Christmas; from before the age of five she remembered only flashes of her mother and the beach in New Jersey.

  This year was different, however. This was a year of new hope and new promise.

  Brigham poured himself another glass of port. Sherry, holding a dark bottle of beer, had decided to spend the holidays with lagers.

  Brigham seemed to have a new vigor about him, a playfulness that she hadn’t witnessed in a long time. Perhaps, she thought, the holiday cheer was contagious.

  “Carol Bishop called this morning.”

  “Really.” Brigham rested his glass on a knee.

  “She says Hettie is going to night school. She wants to get her GED someday.”

  “Bravo,” said Brigham.

  “And Yousy is starting seventh grade.”

  “What about Carol?” he said kindly.

  “She loves having them. She credits Yousy for finding her daughter’s killers.”

  “So she should. They need anything?”

  “Hunh-uh. They’re living in their apartment over the garage, she said it’s twice the size of their home in Tiburon.”

  “We should send them something. A ham, a turkey.”

  “Will you handle that, Mr. Brigham?”

  He smiled. “My pleasure.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Sherry looked at Brigham. “You expecting anyone?”

  “Not me.” Brigham put his glass on an end table. “Are you here?”

  “As long as it’s not the press.”

  “Lord, I know that much, Sherry.”

  She smiled.

  Brigham left her there, feeling the warmth of the winter sun through the plate glass wall that faced the Delaware. He’d said it was snowing earlier, would snow again before midnight. By the weekend there was supposed to be a foot of white stuff on the ground. She didn’t even mind.

  “Sherry, guess who’s here?” Brigham said.

  “Miss Moore,” Metcalf said politely.

  She swiveled her chair toward the door. “Captain?” Sherry smiled, thinking she hadn’t smiled this much in years.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, knowing that for once she wasn’t doing a great job of hiding her emotions.

  “I hope it’s not a bad time.”

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “Mr. Brigham, would you please get our guest a beer, or something stronger, Captain Metcalf?”

  “A beer is fine, but please call me Brian.”

  Sherry nodded, beaming. “I didn’t know how to reach you, to thank you again, Brian. Mr. Brigham said you were out of the country.”

  “Briefly,” Metcalf said.

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “You knew about this?” Sherry turned to Brigham. “That the captain, that Brian was coming today?”

  Brigham said nothing.

  “You never cease to amaze me, never.”

  “So I was told that you’re ready to go downhill skiing, Miss Moore.”

  Sherry looked at Metcalf, perplexed.

  “My friend the ski instructor, he has been working with the blind for several years at a resort in western Pennsylvania. It’s not Vail or Vermont, but I told the admiral it’s a great place to learn.”

  Sherry looked straight at him, nodding her head slowly, question mark on her face. “Uh-huh,” she said slowly. “Is there more?”

  “Uh, actually yes,” Metcalf said, eyebrows raised like question marks at Brigham. “I have some, well, I managed these days coming up, you know, some time off.”

  “To go skiing.” Sherry grinned.

  “Yeah, well, I mean, it takes two skiers to get you down, one on either side of you. I could be the second, if that was all right with you,” Metcalf said shyly. He looked at Brigham and shrugged.

  “And when exactly are my lessons to be?”

  “Uh, the day after tomorrow?” Metcalf said tentatively. “You don’t know about any of this, do you, Miss Moore?”

  Metcalf’s face began to redden.

  Sherry shook her head. “You’ve made reservations?”

  “Two rooms at a bed-and-breakfast near Fort Ligonier, four-day lift passes for Seven Springs Resort. The admiral didn’t tell you?”

  Brigham rose and picked up his bottle. “Well, you kids work out your plans, it’s time for my nap and I’m sure you can entertain yourselves.”

  “Nap?” Sherry made a face. “It’s dinnertime, Mr. Brigham.”

  “Nap,” Brigham said firmly.

  He chuckled and was gone.

  BURGAS, BULGARIA, BLACK SEA

  My dearest Eva,

  I cannot begin to tell you the wonderful things that have happened since arriving in Burgas. Who could have known what lay beyond that endless sea of grapes in Romania? I thought we knew all there was to know about life. I imagined I was the luckiest girl in all of Cotnari.

  Do you know how little money I left home with last month, my “wedding” savings, and yet in three short weeks I have doubled it. There is more to life than marrying a Lepushin and farming dawn to dark.

  Grigori, my new friend, has been paying me to model. And no, it’s not what you think. I wear clothes and lots of them. He photographs for a fashion designer based out of Italy. Oh, Eva, you would love him. I told him how beautiful you are and he said I should send for you immediately.

  I know it was you that was always accused of having a wild streak, and me that everyone thought so levelheaded. Well, let me tell you fro
m a level head, pack your bags and get here as fast as you can. Grigori has booked passage for me to Italy in eight days. He says if you are as beautiful as I described he’ll throw in passage for you as well and you will get to meet the designers personally. He says we will be rich within a year.

  Eva, I am staying at the Mirage on Slaveikov Street, Room 1221. Be there by Wednesday, my friend.

  Destiny awaits us.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My agent, Paul Fedorko; my editor, Colin Fox; and all the talented people at Simon & Schuster who make my work look good.

  Cindy Collins, the none-too-subtle voice over my shoulder. Barb, for that very first read.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  George D. Shuman grew up on a cattle farm in the Allegheny Mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania. He worked in a steel mill before moving to Washington, D.C., where he joined the Metropolitan Police Department, from which he retired a lieutenant after twenty years of service. For the next decade Shuman held executive positions in the luxury resort industry, in both Montauk, New York, and Nantucket, Massachusetts, and was a member of the prestigious International Association of Professional Security Consultants.

  He has since returned to the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, where he resides and writes full-time.

  He has two grown children, Melissa and Daniel.

  Table of Contents

  Colophon

  ALSO BY GEORGE D. SHUMAN

  Copyright

  Dedication

  FOREWORD

  1. DENALI, ALASKA

  2. EDMONTON, ALBERTA, CANADA

  3. PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  4. CARIBBEAN SEA

  5. SANTO DOMINGO, DOMINICAN REPUBLIC 2008

  6. CARIBBEAN SEA

  7. WESTERN HAITI

  8. WESTERN HAITI

  9. CONTESTUS

  10. PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  11. CONTESTUS

  12. WESTERN HAITI

  13. JAMAICA CHANNEL

  14 PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  15. PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA