Point of No Return

by Rita Henuber

  “Let me see it.” He reached for her and she moved away.

  “In there.” She tipped her head toward the trees. “Out of the sun.” Gemma trudged across the beach, her wet boots and pants glazing with sand like powdered sugar on her favorite French pastry. At the edge of the jungle, she stomped and kicked at fallen fronds. Satisfied land crabs, brown bugs that looked like roaches on roids and other unidentifiable critters had vacated, she dropped to her knees and pulled the Blowout medical bag from her backpack, handed it to Walsh and offered up her cut arm.

  “I have one of these in my pack?” he said, dropping to his knees across from her.

  “Yes. Specific to your medical needs. I’m allergic to a lot of antibiotics. What I can take is in mine.”

  “How would meds I need be in here?” Walsh narrowed his eyes at her.

  “You filled out forms for the company.” Forms that listed his age as fourteen years her junior. “Each person who flies with us has an emergency pack made specifically for them. You know, in case of emergencies.”

  “Oooh. Yeah, I remember,” he said, examining the contents. “Never had any reason to examine these packages before.”

  “Uh, Doc?” His knees were spread and she could see his package quite clearly through the light fabric of his pants.

  “Yeah?”

  “Ya might want to pull your shirt down so I . . .” She flipped her hand in the general direction of his crotch but kept her eyes high. “To cover . . .”

  He looked down. Then back. He raised and lowered a shoulder and gave her a smile that had doubtless charmed every female he’d ever met. “Sorry.” He slowly pulled his shirt around to cover his crotch. “Better?”

  She rolled her eyes and presented her shoulder. “You going to fix me or not? We need to get moving.”

  “Sure. Let me get an idea of what’s in here.”

  Walsh bent his head and went back to the bag, examining morphine ampoules, meds, a transfusion kit, and a basic surgical instrument kit, emblazoned with sterile in white block letters across the green pouches.

  “Good stuff,” he said, using the antiseptic hand wash. “Let’s see that.” He clasped her arm and pushed up the sleeve of her polo, exposing the now stinging cut.

  “There are latex gloves in there.”

  “Don’t need them unless you want me to put them on.” He looked at her, waiting patiently for the answer.

  “No,” she said, and he went to work gently probing the area. She was glad he didn’t want to dig out the gloves. The faster they did this the better.

  “Any sharp pain when I do this?” He pressed over the length of the slash.

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Nothing stuck in there, and it’s not deep enough for stitches. Needs to be cleaned. The Pacific did a pretty good job but I want to be sure.”

  She nodded and looked. It was more scrape than cut and looked worse than it felt. Walsh freed an adhesive bandage patch from its sterile wrap, gave it to her and twisted the cap off a plastic bottle marked antiseptic.

  “Can’t you use the hand wash stuff?” She didn’t want them using supplies unnecessarily.

  “I went to medical school to learn about stuff.” He removed the cap. “I even have a piece of paper that says doctor of medicine,” he said, heavy on the doctor of medicine. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Okay, smart-ass.

  “This is going to sting like a son-of-a-bitch,” he said.

  There was an interesting bedside manner. “You say that to all your patients?” He ignored her. She took a deep breath and let it go as the cool liquid hit her skin.

  “That’s it?” she said, looking at her arm. “What happened to the hurt part?”

  “Yep, tough lady, that’s it.” He sat back on his heels, palms resting on his thighs, hitting her with the same lopsided grin he had when she first saw him in Esmeralda three days ago. Had it only been three days? She’d stepped out of the plane and seen him casually leaning against the medical mission truck, wearing an incredibly old, faded and holey Judas Priest T-shirt and ratty jeans with almost as much ventilation as the shirt. She thought he was an expat hired to unload the plane. As she walked to him, he removed his mirrored sunglasses and checked her out as seriously as she was checking him out. He thrust out a large hand in greeting and stuck a rusty nail in her fantasy balloon by saying, “I’m Dr. Ben Walsh.”

  Having a relationship with a client was out of the question on a professional level and was a personal thumbs-down. The cougar thing didn’t bother her. She was perceived as years younger. She’d lucked out and gotten the best, hell, the only thing, her parents had to offer. Their good genes and looks. Her personal bar was set firmly at seven years younger.

  She eyed the antiseptic container. “You were messing with me. That stuff doesn’t really hurt.”

  “Oh, it does,” he said, putting the cap back on the container. “If you’d been the one pouring it on my cut I’d still be whining like a little sissy. Gimme the patch.”

  She handed it over and watched as he covered the area, gently smoothing the square, molding it to her skin. His fingers slid under the sleeve to her shoulder.

  “Sore?”

  “Hmm.” She nodded.

  “Rotate the shoulder.”

  She did. His fingers probed. His eyes stayed on her face

  . This was a bedside manner she could get used to. She kept up the movement. He kept up the probing. Having a relationship with a client and a much younger man was out of the question, but she had nothing against enjoying this. And the scenery. He really was a good-looking man.

  “Oh.”

  Walsh stopped. “I hurt you?”

  “No.” She remembered he’d been bleeding and touched a finger to a red welt inside his hairline. He winced. The doc was a whiner. “In the plane, it was bleeding.” He shoved her hand aside and gingerly explored the knot.

  “Look.” He dipped his head. “Tell me what’s there.”

  “Are you sure you want to trust the person without a medical diploma?” She couldn’t resist. He squinted up at her, frowning. Gemma carefully separated his thick hair. “A lump the size of a quarter, half a centimeter high, with a tiny cut, like a puncture, next to that scar. No blood now. Want me to put the stingy stuff on it?”

  “Yeah. Can we use your stingy stuff or do I need to get mine out?”

  “Use mine. There’s a signal mirror in here if you want to see it yourself,” she said, going for her pack.

  “I believe you.”

  His dark eyes watched as she dripped antiseptic on a two-by-two gauze.

  “Okay?” She waited for a nod of approval then covered the lump, pressing.

  “Ow.” He moved her hand away. “Thanks.” The word didn’t carry a heartfelt tone. “I can do it now.”

  He dabbed it, wincing. “We both need to take some pain meds.” He dropped the gauze and held up a plastic pill container, a long generic name on the plain label. “It’s ibuprofen, can you take these?” She nodded. He handed her two and shook out two more for himself. “When we come down off the adrenaline rush we’re going to feel every bump and our muscles will be screaming. There’s stronger stuff in here. No need to take them unless these”—he shook the container, rattling the pills—“don’t work.”

  Gemma nodded and dry-swallowed the oblong pills. She stood and left Walsh to gather the litter from the jungle emergency room. She kicked and examined downed palm fronds, picking two that were free of critters. “Doc, don’t go digging through everything. Look, but don’t take things out and put them on the ground. Don’t want to pick up any travelers.”

  “Geesus. Do you always order people around like this?”

  She paused and considered the question. “Yes. I do.” She headed for the beach.

  “Where are you going?” he called.

  “Don’t worry.” She turned and walked backward. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m covering our tracks.” She waived the fronds. “Stay put.”

&
nbsp; Gemma swept over their footprints until they were nothing more than unidentifiable lumps in the sand. She stood at the edge of the jungle surveying her work. Even if the men from the trawler came ashore to search, it would be okay.

  She returned to find Walsh slathering himself with bug repellant, items from his pack spread out on the ground. He held the green repellant container at arm’s length. “Hope this crap works. The mosquitoes here are big enough to fuck a duck.”

  Gemma snorted and dropped to her knees, snatching articles up and examining each for things that moved. “I told you not to put anything on the ground.”

  “There aren’t any bugs on them.”

  “No bugs?” Gemma flicked the centipede-like thing off a food packet.

  “Come on,” he yelled, brushing the thing off his shirt. “Those things can bite.”

  “Eggzackerly.” She dug her repellant out of the pack, put a quarter-size dollop in her palm and rubbed her hands together. “Don’t use so much. A little goes a long way.” And we don’t know how long we’ll be out here.

  “Do I need to rub down my pack?” he asked. “You know, to keep the bugs off.”

  “Packs are treated with this,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm, and smeared the oily substance over her skin, hair, and clothes. “Things may fall on it but they’ll jump right off. Now, get your stuff back in the pack. Need to move from this location. We’ve already spent too much time here.”

  Walsh said nothing as he returned all the items, after carefully checking them, inside his pack.

  “We’ll stay on the edge of the jungle off the beach. No tracks.”

  Walsh slipped his arms through the straps and bounced, adjusting the pack. She did the same and they headed off. She headed north. He headed south.

  Gemma halted. “Wrong way, Doc.”

  He turned and gave her a quizzical look. “That’s south,” he said, jerking his head in the direction he’d been going.

  “I know,” Gemma said. “We’re going north.”

  “Nooo.” He shook his head. “North is the direction the guys with the guns are. We are going south.”

  “Nooo.” She mimicked his tone. “You may be going south but I’m going north. The river leading to several villages and help is a day, maybe two north of here. South is nothing for five days.” She took a couple of steps and Walsh grabbed her pack, damn near yanking her off her feet.

  “We are going south,” he said. She rounded on him, ready to chew him up and spit him out but stopped. Losing her temper was not the way to go.

  He yanked the pack’s shoulder strap. “What makes you think you’re the one in charge here?”

  Bubba pushed too far. Gemma slammed her forearm against his, breaking his grip on her pack, then jammed the heel of her hand into the middle of his chest hard enough to stagger him. Showing him who was boss was apparently the only way to go. She closed the space between them and gave his chest a hard poke. “You’re the client. I’m the company pilot, at your beck and call until . . . those bullets hit the plane. Here, now,” she said and glanced around at their surroundings, “it’s different and you need to be real clear on this. I am in charge here. You doctor.” She poked him again. “Remember? You go medical school, you trained to make life-and-death decisions in a hospital.” She smacked the bandage on her arm. “You fix boo-boos.” She put her hand to her chest. “Me pilot.” She held her arms out like the wings of a plane. “Me go survival school. Me trained to make life-and-death decisions in places like this. Me”—she poked her chest—“know how to save your”—she poked again—“ass.”

  The doc said nothing and she took advantage of his silence.

  “I’m a real goal-oriented type of person who . . .” His lips were twitching. “My number-one goal here is to stay alive.” She stepped closer and he stepped back. “Why? I like breathing. My second goal is to keep you breathing.” She advanced a step and he took one back. “If I don’t meet my first goal, which I’m very interested in, I automatically won’t be meeting my second goal and presumably a goal you are interested in.” Walsh started to say something but she held up a hand. “No comments now. I’ll be taking questions later.” She took in a breath to rein in her escalating temper. “In my goal-oriented life I’ve learned the reason many goals aren’t reached is because there’s a failure to make secondary goals. My secondary goal is to get us to safety by going north, therefore accomplishing my primary goal.” She paused. “Now here’s where we come up against a problem. If you want to go south that won’t make me happy, but I can’t stop you. Before you take off you will write a note saying you knew the risks of heading south by yourself. Sort of like what you doctors do when a patient signs themselves out of the hospital against medical advice, AMA. Only here it’s APA. Against pilot advice.” She sucked in a breath and blew it out. “You, sir, under no circumstances will deter me from meeting my primary goal. Do. You. Understand?”

  “I have permission to speak now?” Walsh said.

  “Go for it.” She flipped a hand in a circle.

  His lips twitched again. “You look pretty silly doing that pilot-survival-woman thing.”

  She gave him a slow up-and-down look. Maybe the thing was a little over the top. Ah, hell. There was no maybe, it was over the top. “Come. Stay. Go south. I can’t force you to stay with me. I’m not risking my life going south.” She headed off. It was a good thirty seconds before she heard him behind her. She didn’t bother to suppress her smile. It worked. The good doctor didn’t like being told what to do but he could be manipulated.

  “Okay. Okay. North,” he grumbled, catching up and passing her. She’d give him the lead. It would make him happy, keep his testosterone balance under control, and his crashing through the undergrowth would chase the creepy crawly things out of her way.

  In fifteen minutes their faces were red and they were panting and gasping like they’d just had sex. Walsh’s hair, which she noted was longer than hers, was plastered to his skull. Their clothes were as wet and clinging as when they’d stumbled from the Pacific. Every ten steps she paused, listening for the boat around Walsh’s crashing and the increasingly annoying zzzeeeing from angry clouds of insects trying to penetrate the nuclear-strength bug protection.

  “Stop,” she demanded.

  “Stop?” He whirled on her, his arms held out. “A few minutes back you were hell-bent on go. Now it’s stop. Which is it, survival woman?”

  “Listen.” Gemma held up a hand and cocked her head. It was faint but there. A hum. An engine’s hum.

  “To what?”

  She went closer to the beach. Holy shit. She bolted back, shrugging out of her pack as she ran. “It’s the boat.” She hadn’t factored in wind direction while listening. It was almost on top of them.

  “Damn it, I told you we shouldn’t go north.”

  “Get that shirt off,” Gemma ordered.

  “Why?”

  For crap’s sake. “It’s white. An unnatural color in the jungle.” She dropped her pack. “Difficult to hide. Off. Now.” Fuck. Why hadn’t she thought of this?

  “Your shirt is white and you aren’t . . .” Before he could finish she was tugging hers over her head. His pack hit the ground and he peeled the offending garment away. They stood staring at each other. Her at his broad shoulders, a lightly furred chest bisected with an ugly angular five-inch scar on his right side. His eyes flicked from the tat on her shoulder to the gun holstered between her breasts. Engine sounds broke through the palms, clear and loud.

  “Run.” Gemma grabbed her pack and took off through the dense tangle of vines, shrubs and small trees. Hopping over roots, slipping on rotting leaves, pushing branches and vines away, hoping like hell none were snakes, until it was impossible to advance. She did a feet-first, load-the-bases slide under a plant with huge leaves that looked like something from a science project gone bad. Walsh dropped in the small space, rolling half on her. The thrumming engine sound became louder than the surf and was accompanied by an occasional v
oice until they saw the boat cruising just outside the surf line. Gemma positioned the packs between them and the water for further camouflage.

  “Can you make out what they’re saying? Your Spanish is better than mine,” she whispered. He raised his head and she shoved it down. “Stay low.”

  Ben turned his head, working on catching the voices. “Nothing. They’re too far away. Why are we whispering?”

  “Electronic equipment. That boat is loaded with it. No telling what it’s for.”

  The boat vanished from view and engine sounds were quickly overtaken by jungle sounds.

  “How long do you think before they come back?”

  She squirmed and wiggled until she could turn enough to see his face. Dirt and other things stuck to the film of sweat coating his face and chest. “No telling.” She twisted her arm from under his body and swiped the back of her hand over her face, coming away with the same kind of debris. “We went into the water,” she said and checked her watch, “an hour ago. We aren’t that far from where we went in. Say it takes them ten minutes to reach the plane.”

  “The water there is clear,” Walsh said, worry creeping into his voice. “They put somebody in the water it’ll be easy to see we aren’t in the plane.”

  “There aren’t any clear assumptions. The doors are open. We could have been killed and our bodies floated away. Maybe we attempted to get to the beach and drowned. We could have made it to the beach. In that clear water they should be able to read the logo and know we were a medical mission. Know we weren’t looking for them.” And know anybody aboard would bring a fat ransom. He didn’t need to know that. At least not yet.

  “What now?”

  Gemma opened a side compartment on her pack and removed a tightly balled piece of khaki-colored knit material. “We get some clothes on before one of those mosquitoes with bad vision finds us and thinks we’re a duck.” She pushed up and sat facing him. Might as well give him a good view of the tat and gun and get any discussion out of the way now. Walsh didn’t hesitate to stare at the three-inch lighthouse on her left shoulder.

  “Guardian.” He repeated the word written in the beam of the lighthouse.