“I'm just a rookie with no authority to do something this crazy!”
“Do you think Dan Rather and Connie Chung just sat around on their butts when an opportunity like this came up?” Seeing his expression, she pressed her advantage home. “This story could make you a media darling. You'd be brave, dashing, daring, resourceful, making a spur of the moment decision to risk your own life to save a dying hero. Or,” she added, scuffing the ground with the remains of her shoe, “you could just forget about it and leave now.”
He regarded her suspiciously. “And you'd tell the whole world about this moment as soon as you got back home, wouldn't you?”
“Well...” She smiled sweetly at him.
He sighed. “I think I hate you, Miss Barrington.”
“I sometimes have that effect on people.”
* * * *
A bird swooped overhead. Its scarlet and indigo wings burst into flame as an explosion made his head ache. Oh, how his head ached! And his leg, his leg, his leg.... Throb, throb, throb ... KABOOM! in the distance, and ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom in his body. Children running around, chattering, the chattering of birds, twitter, twitter, the sound of a roller coaster, he was falling now, falling ... The roar of the New York subway. A dragon breathing fire in the dark tunnels. Someone pulled a gun and shot him in the belly! The pain, oh, God, the pain ... The pain in those eyes. He watched the eyes of the crowd. Eyes, eyes, those sociopath eyes, those strange eyes looking right at Barbara Bush. He was worried about those hostile eyes boring into her. Don't shoot, man, he thought, don't shoot, don't pull a gun, don't move too fast, don't do anything, I'll have to fucking kill you. Don't make me do it, man.
“I'll fucking kill you,” he muttered.
“What did he say?” A stranger's voice.
Then her voice. “He's delirious. Pay no attention. Come on. Lift him.” Her voice. His only lifeline.
Then those hard eyes, staring, threatening. “Fucking kill you!” he warned.
“Uh, how delirious is he?”
“He doesn't know we're here. He's dreaming something. Come on, lift him.”
She touched him. He knew her touch, the cool, gentle strength of her hands. She touched him, and now he remembered. He knew what he had to tell her before he died. He'd tried before, but it was so hard, so hard to speak with the vultures swooping down with blood red wings, with explosions and chattering and all the guns and strange eyes, and the pain, the pain, the pain ... But he had to try, he had to tell her, because he'd never have another chance.
“I l...” His throat was so dry. Desert and jungle mingled in his mind. Running. Running. Must save her. Must tell her, so she'd always know.
Water trickled down his throat. He choked on it.
“Jesus,” someone murmured, “how did he get like this?”
“Infection. Germs breed quickly here,” she said.
“L ... Love...” He tried again. “Llll...”
“What's he saying?”
“I don't know.” She sounded so weary.
“Sounds like ‘love.'”
He felt her hand on his forehead.
I love you.
He opened his eyes. The room spun wildly. Her hair flowed and swirled. Her eyes glowed.
Then he saw the men looming over him. Over her.
Two men! Sensing he was too weak to protect her, he lashed out at them even so. One of them screamed. He heard it with satisfaction.
“Ransom! No!” she cried, forcing him to lie back again.
He struggled, desperate to save her. The effort was too much. Darkness enfolded him, leaving him alone with his nightmares.
* * * *
It took some talking to convince Higgins’ associates to take Ransom with them after that brief and terrifying attack he had attempted in his delirium. He'd actually hurt one of them, though not seriously. However, once he was mercifully unconscious again, they carried him out to the helicopter and strapped him into one of the seats. Madeleine gave one of the journalists information about how to contact her father to tell him she was all right.
“My father will be able to give you Marino's phone number, and Marino will have all of Ransom's passport and medical information. Oh, and one more thing.” She stared hard at the journalists, who were clearly eager to get back to Argentina to turn in their reports before San Remo became old news. “I have never before abused the privileges of my family name. But if Mr. Ransom doesn't get help in time to save him, then I will personally see to it that none of you ever works again. And believe me, gentlemen, a Barrington can do it.”
She didn't care what they thought of her. Only he mattered now. She never really got to say goodbye to him. His head lolled forward in unconsciousness, and he was too far from the door of the helicopter for her to even touch his hand. She took a long last look at him, then allowed Higgins to draw her away from the helicopter so it could take off. Tears streaked her face as she watched it fly away.
“He'll make it,” Higgins said reassuringly. “He looked like one tough sonofabitch to me.”
She gave a watery smile. “He'd be flattered by the description.”
* * * *
Considering the enormous amount of work that needed to be done at the mission, Madeleine volunteered her services to Sister Margaret as soon as Ransom left. She also turned over all of her money—American cash, Montedoran cash, and remaining travellers’ checks—to the Sister. Margaret reflected wryly that this money would be a godsend if there was anything left in San Remo to buy, but the town was cleaned out. Using a little ingenuity, Madeleine asked Margaret for a list of the most urgently needed supplies and then began scouring the town and the ever-growing refugee camps for a black market. She was partially successful, although it was clear that the disaster was too new and had happened too fast for most things to be available here, even illegally and at exorbitant prices.
The fighting moved southeast, and reports on the twelve-band radio in Sister Margaret's office said that the Argentines had closed their border with Montedora for the time being. It was the BBC which reported that a former American Secret Service agent, now acting as a private security consultant, had been brought out of San Remo by journalists; though wounded and seriously ill, the man was now rapidly recovering in a New York hospital. Madeleine wept with relief.
LPM rebels passed through San Remo, fleeing the fighting. Madeleine would have preferred to stay out of sight until they were gone, but she had to stay close to Sister Margaret and keep the old woman from getting herself killed. Margaret furiously opposed these armed, wild-eyed rebels as they raided the mission for food and medicine. One of them hit Margaret hard enough to draw blood. Madeleine bitterly regretted that she'd let Margaret take her gun away from her; she honestly could have shot these brutes without regret.
“Cowards, bullies, and murdering fanatics,” Margaret said after they left. “They aren't like the Doristas.”
“You know the Doristas?” Madeleine asked, washing away the blood on the Sister's face.
The old woman nodded. “I have defied the Church and given them aid many times. Half the men in San Remo have gone off to join the Doristas in the past year. They are just ordinary people who want a decent life.” She accepted a drink of water, then continued, “They are tired of the poverty and misery brought upon them by the excesses of this country's self-appointed leaders; and they are tired of seeing anyone who questions the government being hauled off by the Seguridores, to disappear forever.”
“Do you think the Doristas can win?” Madeleine asked.
“I only know that they will never stop trying.”
* * * *
They saw more journalists at San Remo before they saw supplies. However, everyone who arrived, including a Red Cross representative, assured them that help was on the way. The delay was now only due to the fighting south of here. Trucks were waiting just across the border, and they would enter Montedora as soon as they believed they had a reasonable chance of reaching San Remo. Meanwhile,
a few daring helicopters flew across the combat zone to bring the most urgently needed medical supplies to the beleaguered town.
“You know,” Sister Margaret said to Madeleine one evening as they watched another journalist fly away to make his report, “you could have gone with him.”
Madeleine kept her eyes on the departing helicopter. “I'll stay until the relief workers arrive.”
“What about your husband?”
She glanced at the old woman. “I think you know we're not married.”
“All the same, you worry about him constantly. It's in your face.”
“He's safe and recovering. That's what matters most. I just worry because it's my nature.”
“He will worry, too.”
“I told that journalist to call New York and tell my family I'm all right. They'll tell Ransom.”
“But y—”
“Are you suggesting I'm no longer needed here?” Madeleine asked.
“You know how much you're needed,” Margaret said as they turned to go back to her office. “I will not feed your vanity by saying more.”
Madeleine smiled. “I've never been one to shirk my duty, Sister. I will leave when the relief trucks arrive.”
* * * *
Escalante's army supporters eventually fell back, heading east again, while the Veracruz faction went west to re-group. During the lull, the supply trucks crossed Montedora's southern border and headed for San Remo. They arrived a week after Ransom's departure. Things had gotten very grim in San Remo by then, but Sister Margaret managed to prevent a food riot through the sheer force of her personality. So many people had already died, and so many more would. But now there was help and hope.
While assisting the Sister in organizing the many newcomers, Madeleine hungrily absorbed whatever news she could gather.
The LPM, whose numbers had been seriously depleted by an ill-considered assault on Escalante's army forces during the recent fighting, was now humbly requesting an alliance with the Doristas, who were ignoring them. The Doristas, meanwhile, were rapidly gaining territory in the north, taking advantage of the way Escalante's and Veracruz's factions were busily destroying each other.
The Presidential Guards had suffered heavy casualties while rescuing Veracruz, who had survived and fled the country with his family. Martinez was in Brazil, reportedly petitioning the United States for political asylum. Escalante secured the capital, and communications were finally restored.
It took Madeleine three hours to get a phone call through to her family, but she finally managed it. Her mother was tearful, but it was the relief in her father's voice which brought tears to Madeleine's eyes. Her first question was about Ransom's health.
“He's fine,” her father said. “Released from the hospital two days ago. Still weak, according to Joe Marino, but able to walk.”
“Really?” More tears streamed down her cheeks and she laughed with relief.
“He, uh, he seems to blame himself for what happened down there, Madeleine.”
“That's ridiculous!”
“I saw him at the hospital when he was first allowed visitors. He said that he shouldn't have gotten wounded, shouldn't have let you stay with him, and shouldn't have let you send him away.”
“He was unconscious at the time. It's not as if he had any choice in the matter.”
“All the same ... He's been very concerned about you. Asked me to call him at work whenever I receive additional news about you.”
“He's back at work?” she asked, annoyed with Ransom. He should be resting!
“Since being released from the hospital, and against doctors’ orders.”
“Naturally,” she muttered.
“For your mother's sake, by the way, I thank you for the messages you've had journalists pass along to me while you've been in San Remo.”
“Of course, Dad.” She knew full well he wasn't really just thanking her for her mother's sake, but she let him maintain his stoic image.
“And there's money waiting for you in Argentina, to help you get whatever you need for your journey home.” He gave her the necessary information. “When will you leave?”
“Probably the day after tomorrow.”
“Can't you leave any sooner?”
She explained about the chaos currently reigning at the mission, with so many eager relief workers, fresh supplies, vehicles, and refugees still pouring into the devastated area. “Sister Margaret still needs my help, Dad,” she concluded. “I can't leave her right now.”
“Well, yes, I can see your point. You've always done your...” She heard him clear his throat roughly. “Excuse me.”
She smiled. “Besides, I'll still keep my promise and be home in time for your birthday party.”
“Oh ... Yes. Actually, we had decided to cancel it, considering—”
“Oh, no, Dad! You mustn't. We'll have a double celebration now. Your birthday and my homecoming. Please.”
“Of course, Madeleine. If that's what you want.”
“It is. And be sure to invite Ransom when you talk to him again.”
“I will.”
“And tell him I...”
“Yes?”
“Tell him I said hello,” she finished lamely.
“Of course.”
“I'll call you from Argentina,” she promised, knowing he would continue to worry.
“Yes. Don't forget, honey.”
She smiled as she replaced the receiver. He hadn't called her that in years.
* * * *
Madeleine's departure, so long anticipated, was now breaking her heart. It was so hard to say goodbye to the brave people she'd met here, so hard to walk away from those who still needed her, and so terribly hard to turn her back on the complex tapestry of Montedora.
“I meant to say goodbye to Higgins,” Madeleine said as Sister Margaret escorted her to a waiting helicopter.
“He's far too busy,” the Sister replied dryly. “I'll tell him for you.”
Madeleine smiled. Higgins had indeed put these past ten days to good use, making a prominent name for himself. He was the source on what had been happening here since the start of the crisis, and he knew dozens of locals, refugees, orphans, and nuns on a first-name basis.
As they paused before the helicopter, Sister Margaret pressed a rosary into Madeleine's hand. “I have little enough to give,” she said, “and I know you aren't Catholic, but I owe you more than I can say. This was my grandmother's, and I brought it with me from Ireland over fifty years ago.”
“Margaret...”
“Vaya con Dios.”
Madeleine hugged the tiny old woman fiercely, grunting at the strength of Margaret's arms around her ribs. She took one last look at San Remo, then turned away to begin the first leg of her journey to a familiar place and a new future.
* * * *
A couple of days later, Ransom replaced the receiver on the telephone in his office and lit up a cigarette. Barrington had called to tell him that, after more unexpected delays, Madeleine was really on her way home at last. She would arrive just a few hours before a big party being given at the Barrington family home out on Long Island. Barrington had reiterated his invitation to Ransom, and Ransom had again hedged, saying he would come if his leg wasn't bothering him too much.
He flexed the leg now. It was tender, stiff, and a little weak, but getting better every day. No, it wasn't his leg that would keep him away from Madeleine tonight. Not by a long shot.
His stomach churned when he thought about going to that party. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt indecisive and nervous. It wasn't like him, and it appalled him.
He ground out his cigarette after just a few puffs, then restlessly lit another one only a couple of minutes later.
He had to see her, to talk to her. He wanted to be with her more than he wanted to go on breathing. He'd nearly left for Argentina two days ago, but Joe had stopped him. But now that she was so near ... Now he was scared. There was so much at
stake. How could he talk to her at a big party, surrounded by people? What if she'd been re-thinking everything? He'd hardly turned out to be a hero, after all, he thought with heavy self-disgust.
The phone rang again, surprising him. He picked it up.
“Yeah?”
“A call from New Orleans, Ransom,” said his secretary. “Someone who claims that it's all his fault that you were wounded in Montedora.”
He frowned, knowing it was his own damn fault. “Who is it?”
“He says his name is Miguel Arroyo.”
“Jesus, he's alive!” Ransom sagged into his chair. “Let me talk to him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Madeleine studied herself in the full-length mirror in her old bedroom at Chateau Camille. She was wearing an elegant evening gown; Caroline had thoughtfully stopped by her apartment this morning to pick it up for her, while she was napping at thirty thousand feet somewhere over Brazil. The gown was one of her favorites, a simple, form-fitting, cream-colored satin confection which left her arms and shoulders bare. It usually suited her. But although daily application of Listerine had helped heal the cuts and abrasions she'd collected in the jungle, many of them still showed faintly pink against her white skin. There was one on her left arm and another above her breasts that looked particularly unattractive.
“Oh, it never even occurred to me,” Caroline said, looking doubtfully at Madeleine. “Sorry. I should have brought you a few dresses and let you choose.”
Madeleine turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, well. Nothing to be done now. It'll have to do.”
She saw both of her sisters blink with surprise at her casual tone. Caroline and Charlotte had hardly left her side since she landed at JFK this afternoon; her parents were now downstairs, welcoming the first few guests of the evening. The Barringtons were normally not a demonstrative family, but Madeleine's homecoming had been warm and emotional, thawing the chilliness that had existed between her and her sisters only a couple of weeks ago.
“We could put some concealer on those scratches,” Charlotte suggested.
Madeleine studied her reflection doubtfully. “I think that might just make them look worse. Anyhow, it's no big deal.”
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