Chasing the Wind

by Pamela Binnings Ewen

  Jude hung up the phone, walked into the living room, and snapped on the television set. He fell back onto the couch and put his feet up on the footstool, crossing them. Women! It was as though he and Amalise were speaking two different languages. She certainly hadn't opened the door to further conversation, though. If anything, she'd sounded cool, a little distant. One thing was clear: She wanted nothing more between them than the status quo.

  Standing, he went to the TV and changed the channel, tried all three stations, and clicked it off. Thinking again of the evening at Clancy's, a rise of bitterness was instantly followed by a wave of emotional pain.

  The phone rang and he picked it up.

  "Hi there." Rebecca's voice was cheerful, vanquishing the gloom. "I'm off early tonight. How about a movie?"

  "Sure. What's playing?"

  He could almost hear the shrug. "I don't know, but for $2.50 we can't go wrong."

  There was work to do on the empty apartment next door before he returned to Pilottown next week. Renovations were needed before he could rent it out again. But he could stand to escape the world for a while at the Prytania Theater. "Okay, I'll pick you up. What time?"

  "Seven thirty?"

  "Sounds good."

  Hanging up the phone, Jude pictured Rebecca's easy smile, the way she had of flipping that long red hair back over her shoulder with a little shake of her head when she laughed. She was fun, uncomplicated.

  He'd be back on watch in about a week. And that was fine with him, because right about now he wanted nothing more than to forget about Amalise Catoir for a while.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Phnom Penh, Cambodia 1975

  The child whimpered, moving close, burying his face against Samantha as the cycle sped past the shanty huts that ringed the city. She held tight to the boy, wondering if the places they were passing were familiar to him. Imagined scenes haunted her. A mother weeping in the shanty warren, searching alleyways for her little boy. A desperate father calling.

  But she couldn't leave him there alone. She comforted herself with the thought that the child was more likely one of the city's thousands of new orphans. He'd ravaged the sandwich at her apartment as if he hadn't eaten in days. There was no telling what horrors he had faced. Holding him against her now, she was even more conscious of his fragility, how small he was, with those big, empty eyes.

  She bent her head, lips to his ear, and whispered in Khmer, "Who are you, child? Where is home?" But his only response was to press closer. Absently she stroked his hair, forcing away thoughts of a family that would be lost to him forever once they boarded that plane.

  As the bicycle cart rocked along at surprising speed, she wondered where the two of them would end up. And who would care for him once she got him out of here? She'd never given a thought to the idea of raising a child. She was married to her mission work. Was there room in her life for a child?

  The cyclist interrupted her thoughts, pointing. "Look there!"

  He was leaving the main road, pedaling furiously at a diagonal across a burned field bordered on three sides by the thick, brooding jungle. Shading her eyes, she spotted the planes in the distance. The familiar Air America C-123s were about half mile away, she judged. But even so, she could see the propellers already spinning.

  The bicycle cart bounced over the uneven field, threatening to overturn at any moment. Yet the cyclist did not slow. Sam clung to the child with one hand and gripped the edge of the cart with the other. As they grew closer, she saw cars, a Jeep, and a truck parked near the planes. And she could see people running for the ramps to board at the back of the planes.

  A fresh surge of fear rushed through her as she dug into her purse for the money she'd promised the cyclist. Surely Oliver wouldn't leave her behind. She lifted her hand, waving and calling Oliver's name as the cart swayed and picked up speed.

  Still, no one turned or seemed to see them.

  Without slowing, the cyclist held his hand up over his shoulder, motioning. She shoved all the money into his fist—forty dollars extra, but he'd probably need it.

  Now she could make out faces. She could see Oliver now. And Jason Brandt from CARE. And Margaret Bordelon from the embassy, with her girl. Others were running from their cars, arms shielding their faces from the dust raised by the propellers.

  Sam called out again and again as the cart bounced across the field, but the engines roared and obliterated all other sound.

  And then, ninety yards away, clutching the child with one arm, she waved and with all the power in her lungs she screamed out his name. "Oliver! Oliver! Oliver!"

  At the foot of the ramp he halted and turned, frowning, peering into the sun, hands over his eyes, searching the field.

  She half rose now in the swaying cart, grasping the child and pushing herself up. When at last he lifted his arm, waving, she broke into a smile. Thank you, Lord. He's seen us!

  Oliver started forward, motioning, winding his arms, reeling her in, and she could hear him shouting, "Hurry, Sam! Hurry!"

  That's when the cart lurched, careening from side to side as it rolled on toward the planes. A spot of bright red blood spread across the back of the cyclist, and he slumped over the handlebars.

  In that instant, she heard the noise rising above the din of the engines: ear-splitting explosions—rat-tat-tat-tat. She recognized the sound of the Khmer Rouge AK-47s that everyone had talked about. They were here. Now.

  She pushed the child down into her lap and ducked over him. Again came the stuttering, pounding sound, and dirt began shooting up around them. There was no time to think or even scream as the air around the cart turned to dust. The boy burrowed deeper, clinging to her, wailing, until at last, the cart rattled to a stop.

  One thought emerged: Get out.

  But fear rooted Sam to the seat behind the bloody cyclist, and she could not seem to move.

  Suddenly a hand gripped her arm and someone pulled at her, shouting her name. Then she was out of the cart, with the child in her arms and the sun burning down on them, and they were running, running through the hiss of bullets splitting the air and the popping striping of the earth that threw up pebbles and chunks of dirt around them.

  When at last they reached the ramp, a grinding hydraulic whine began. The engines revved and the last plane began slowly moving, dragging the ramp along behind it.

  Amid the dust and commotion, Sam halted, panicked.

  Oliver, now above her, already climbing, coaxed her up the moving ramp. "Sam! Come on, Sam!"

  Then she handed the boy to Oliver, and arms reached out from the black hole behind him, taking the child and he turned back, reaching for her now and looking past her, over her shoulder, his eyes widening. Looking back, following his eyes, Sam saw the soldiers bursting from trees and bush at the far side of the field, guns pointed, running toward them. With a scream she reached for Oliver and he grabbed her hand.

  Holding her eyes, Oliver pulled her slowly up the ramp, the plane jolting them both as the engines revved.

  Again came the rat-tat-tat followed by the tink-tink-tink of metal on metal this time. And that's when she felt it: just a sting at first, and then a burning, swelling, spreading pain as Oliver pulled at her suddenly dead weight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  New Orleans—1977

  On her way to work one morning, Amalise stopped at Langenstein's Market uptown to pick up groceries for Caroline to replace the ones she'd dropped and broken. There was a worn look to the home on Kerlerec Street, and to the family's furniture and clothing, that told her every penny counted in that household. Loading the bags into the trunk of her car, she then headed down St. Charles Avenue toward the Quarter, then on to Marigny.

  She parked in front of Caroline's house, got out, and saw the children in the front yard. Daisy, wearing a pair of jeans and a red sweater
too big for her, sat on the stairs with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching Charlie and Nick play kickball. Luke was nowhere to be seen. When Charlie spotted her and shouted, Daisy jumped up, waving and stamping her feet. Amalise waved back, smiling, and then hefted the two brown grocery bags and crossed the street.

  Nick ran to the gate and held it open. She thanked him and made her way up the steps past Daisy, who yanked gently on the bottom of her skirt. Amalise turned, looked down, and said hello. Daisy stepped back, hooked a finger in the corner of her mouth, and smiled without saying anything.

  Amalise knocked on the wooden frame of the screened door through which the interior of the house was visible. A light was on in the kitchen, and she could see Caroline hurrying through the living room toward her, smoothing her hair as she came.

  "Amalise!" Caroline threw open the door and looked at the grocery bags. Her brows shot up. "Come on in," she said, stepping aside. The door slammed shut behind her. "What's that?" Caroline nodded at the bags.

  "Replacements. For the mess I made the other day."

  Caroline smiled. "You didn't have to do that." She leaned forward and took one of the bags balanced in Amalise's arms.

  "I hope you don't mind."

  "Of course not," Caroline said, as Amalise followed her into the kitchen. "It's kind of you to do this, and of course I love your company." She looked back over her shoulder. "Can you stay for a cup of coffee, or maybe some tea?" She plopped the brown paper bag she'd been carrying down on the kitchen table and turned for the other one.

  "Coffee would be good. Black." Amalise handed the bag to Caroline, and then spotted Luke perched in a big chair at the other end of the table. Conscious of her attention, he slumped, chin dipping shyly to his chest. Slowly he slid his hands from the table into his lap.

  "Hello, Luke," she said.

  He flung his arms back onto the table and dropped his forehead, hiding his face.

  Outside, the children's laughter rang out. Luke remained silent while Amalise and Caroline put away the food she'd brought. Caroline was unusually quiet. When they'd finished, Amalise sat down beside Luke while Caroline poured two cups of coffee.

  But when she turned to hand one to Amalise, her face crumpled. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she sank into the nearest chair.

  Amalise moved around to her, resting her hand on a shoulder. "What's wrong? Is there something I can do to help?"

  Caroline shook her head, sniffling, and quickly wiped away the tears, struggling in vain to smile. "I'm sorry about this." Caroline looked at Amalise. "You've caught me at a bad time." She shook her head and wrapped her hands around the coffee cup. "It's been a rotten morning."

  Amalise braced against the table, preparing to push up. "I'd better leave, then."

  "No!" Caroline flushed. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm glad you showed up when you did. And—and, again, thank you for everything." But the smile on her face didn't reach her eyes. She fingered the collar of her shirt, straightening it. The tremulous smile disappeared. "It's the children, Amalise. Problems with our adoption petitions."

  "Oh no." Amalise pushed back her chair, angling it to face Caroline. "What happened?"

  Caroline gave her a wan smile. "The social worker handling the approval process, Francine Gebb, is worried about our ability to provide for all four children. She called yesterday. We've included Luke in the petitions, too." She glanced at Luke who was sitting up straight now, watching. "Of course, they're also looking at how the children have acclimated to us." Then she started, as if shaking herself.

  "I bet things will work out. You've made a wonderful family, all of you together."

  "Well, she sounded a little strange, like she was holding something back. Said she'd get back to us soon. Until yesterday we'd thought there'd be no problem, that the petitions would be approved." She spread her hands and pressed her lips together with a little sound of exasperation. "So now I'm waiting for her call."

  Amalise glanced at her watch and smiled. "It's only eight thirty in the morning."

  "I know." She looked about as if seeing the kitchen through the eyes of Francine Gebb. "The place is old, but it's plenty big enough. And Ellis keeps things up."

  Amalise nodded and sipped her coffee, visualizing Murdoch's demolition plan. She glanced at Luke. Looked off.

  Caroline sat back, arms dangling at her sides. "Surely they'll see for themselves how the children love us."

  Except for Luke. Without thinking, Amalise glanced back at him.

  Caroline followed her eyes, frowned, and nodded. Then she lifted her chin. "If they'll give us time, he'll come around." Seconds passed. She sipped the coffee and looked at Amalise. "It helps to tell myself that things will turn out right."

  "They will." But she averted her eyes, knowing that was false consolation, given Project Black Diamond.

  Luke moved in his chair, and Amalise was surprised to find his serious brown eyes fixed on her. He seemed so alone. She turned to Caroline. "Do you know what country he's from?"

  "No. He arrived without any paperwork." She glanced at the child and back at Amalise. "We've no background to go on to help him get used to us. When we took him in, the children's home thought he was from South Vietnam, possibly a rural area. But we've got some Vietnamese neighbors, and he doesn't respond to them either." She shrugged. "Ellis bought home a book with Vietnamese words and pictures. He looked at them, but there was no real response."

  Amalise stood, walked over to Luke, and stooped before him, folding her arms on her knees. What had the child endured to cause this withdrawal? She gentled her voice. "Hello, little one. I wish we could unlock your secret. Wish we could let you know that we want to help."

  Luke's face remained expressionless, but looking back at her, he blinked. For an instant she imagined that he understood. She stood, looking down at the whorl of fine dark hair on the peak of his head. Her heart ached for the child. But remembering Black Diamond, she backed away. This was dangerous territory, getting too involved with a family living in the project's target area. In a matter of minutes she made her excuses and left.

  In the office later that morning, she reviewed the last document from a stack that Raymond had left on her desk, checking for errors, flipping each one onto the growing pile beside her as she finished. These she'd take to the conference room when the meeting began a few minutes from now. She glanced at her watch. Quickly she divided the pile into sections—agreements, forms and certificates, and various checklists, all documenting Murdoch's planned destruction of the Marigny. As she worked, Amalise tucked away unwanted thoughts of Caroline and the children, especially Luke.

  Luke, a reminder of the shadow children who still haunted her.

  As Amalise finished and stood, Rebecca stuck her head into the office. "Lunch later on?"

  Amalise looked up at the woman that Jude loved, and her throat went dry. But she forced a smile and shook her head. "No time today," she said. "The Murdoch transaction's taking off." Hugging the documents to her chest, she walked toward the door. "The closing's set for Thanksgiving Eve, only a couple of weeks away."

  "Let me know if Doug thinks he needs any help." Rebecca gave a little wave over her shoulder as she walked off down the hallway.

  Amalise knew Rebecca would give almost anything to take her place on Murdoch's transaction. Then Caroline's face rose before her. And Luke's. And she suddenly realized that right now she, too, would give almost anything to trade places with Rebecca.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The conference room was crowded, the air already heavy with smoke. When Bingham had arrived earlier in the morning to find lawyers and bankers already hard at work, he'd been pleased. But he'd burned through the initial exhilaration within a few hours, and now, with things huffing along, he'd grown bored. Here he sat along with everyone else, slogging through agreements
line by line, paragraph by paragraph, page by page. No one could make an argument for minutiae like lawyers and bankers with their endless analysis and the surprising differences they could find between the words and and or.

  Bingham sighed, wondering how they'd ever meet the closing date at this rate. Examining his fingernails, he estimated the hourly rate of the lawyers and calculated that it was costing well over a thousand dollars each hour that he sat in this chair. Not counting bankers' fees.

  But it wasn't his problem. Lawyers' fees, and expenses like hotel suites and the New Orleans cooking he intended to enjoy, would be paid from the proceeds of loans to Lone Ranger after the closing. So this was Robert's concern, not his.

  He dropped his hands and, threading his fingers, slid back in the chair until he was resting on his haunches. He leaned back and spread his elbows out, wishing he had the concession selling paper to these law firms. Then he thought of the magnificent trees in the Northwest forests that were fodder for these agreements and retracted the wish.

  His eyes roamed over the room as he turned his thoughts to what he'd come to think of as a more purposeful destruction, Project Black Diamond. Smiling to himself, he marveled at the politicians' rationales for demolition of that piece of the Faubourg Marigny. Black Diamond would triple tourism dollars, add jobs, modernize. Dominick Costa had reported to Tom and Robert that the politicians seemed happy, even ecstatic. Dominick, the contractor he'd brought to the project, was the best at what he did.

  Well, the analysis was correct so far as it went, assuming no public protests. Assuming word didn't leak to the long-haired preservationists. Assuming Robert and Tom could keep the lid on talk about plans for the casino a few years down the road so as not to rile the anti-gambling crowd. Assuming the closing occurred soon, before interest rates rose and shut the financing down.

  Once again he congratulated himself for getting the jump on things. Timing was everything. Tom's investors, who would hold the convertible notes, had the traders jazzed, couldn't wait to cut up their piece of the action once gambling took hold down here. The hotel was just the beginning for them. Forget the cash-flow skim. With a casino at the end of the yellow brick road, they were talking real money.