Regina had known she had to leave the States as soon as she knew she was pregnant. It was too much. Her life had become a walking supermarket tabloid. RUSSIAN-SPY DAUGHTER MEDIA HEIRESS PREGNANT WITH VAN HORN ASSASSIN LOVE CHILD. She had dealt with a lot in the few years since Allan Trotter (I’ve never even known his real name, Regina thought) had come into her life, but she was damned if she was going to submit her baby to the ordeal of being fair game for the press. So the media heiress sold off her heritage and beat it before her condition became known.
She was going by the name of Ruth Hardin. Ruth because she also found herself husbandless in a foreign land, and Hardin because it was the first thing she could think of that started with “H.” All her luggage was monogrammed.
Now she had the baby, a beautiful little boy, already curious about his world and these strange giant creatures who populated it. When the time came, she would tell him about his father—how he was strong and brave and very lonely, because he had been chosen to try to save the world from its own stupidities. She would tell him how during the time they had together, he had been happy for the first time in his life. How the idea of having a baby had scared and excited him. And how his love still existed, and would be shared between the two of them forever.
The container was full. Regina rang for the nurse. She came and took it away, gave Regina a shot, and told her to go to sleep. She dreamed, as she frequently did, of Allan. Happy dreams, this time, full of the things they’d planned to do, but never got around to.
The nurse came to see her when she woke up. The room was dark.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Very well,” Regina said. She’d slept so well that she was still a little groggy.
“You had a visitor while you were asleep. Of course, I did not let him in.”
Oh, no, Regina thought, they’ve found me, and I’m in no shape yet to run away.
“Who was he with?” Regina asked wearily.
“With? No, no, madame, he was alone.”
“No, I mean—oh, never mind. What was his name?”
“That is somewhat confused. I asked him, and he said to me, ‘Just say to her, ‘Bash.’”
“Bash?”
“Yes, madame. This Monsieur Bash also said he would come back if he were able.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up? For God’s sake, why didn’t you—”
“The doctor has ordered, madame. I do not understand—this Bash. It means something to you?”
Regina didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the end, she did a little of both.
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copyright © 1990 by William L. DeAndrea
cover design by Jason Gabbert
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