Barefoot in the Sun (24 page)

She was ready to deal with the town sheriff—well, sort of ready—since she knew his weaknesses. But the
FBI
? No. That was like walking into hell to face the devil.

Her heartbeat echoed so loud she couldn’t hear Charity talk, although her lips were moving. She couldn’t remember how to breathe or think or make a joke that could get her out of this.

All she could do was run. So she did.

W
hen the transfusion and gene-therapy treatment were complete at three o’clock, Oliver and Raj crashed in the conference room, both quiet as they came down from the process of injecting vector carriers into Pasha’s cells and monitoring her response.

Raj paced the room, vibrating like an overstrung violin. “I think we did it, Oliver. She responded so well, even better toward the end than I’d thought.”

Oliver nodded, still too preoccupied to talk.

“I think we have everything we need to take this one to the NIH,” Raj added.

The process of getting this far in the testing protocol and working with the National Institutes of Health had been long and arduous. But every roadblock with the government organization would have been worth it if they saved Pasha’s life—and many, many more—because of the job they’d done.

“Look, we have three major risk factors,” Raj continued, as if he felt he had to convince Oliver they’d succeeded. “One is reproductive, so not a factor with an eighty-year-old woman. One is infection of healthy cells, and we’ll know that in a matter of hours. And last is overexpression,” he said, using a term that meant they’d caused inflammation. “That never happened once in the international cases or any other testing I’ve tracked.”

Oliver nodded, taking a long draw on his water.

Raj stopped pacing, coming to a stop in front of his partner. “And then there is the risk that this could get too personal for you.”

“Every patient is personal for me, Raj. That’s my weakness.”

“And your greatest strength. But when you know and care about the patient—”

“I care about every patient.”

“She’s practically family.”

Oliver shook his head. “No, she’s not.”

“She’s the aunt of the woman you love.” At Oliver’s look, Raj waved a hand. “Don’t deny it. I’m practically suffocated when you two are in a room together.”

“That makes two of us suffocated.”

Raj dropped into a chair. “What the hell does that mean?”

It meant he couldn’t breathe for how much he needed her, missed her, wanted her—and he was furious because she didn’t trust him enough to tell him everything. “It means that love, if that’s what you want to call it, can be suffocating.”

“It can also be life changing.”

“Says the committed bachelor.”

Raj had the decency to grin. “Hey, I don’t want my life to change. You, on the other hand—”

“I don’t want my life to change, either.”

“No?”

Yes. Of course he did. “The truth is,” Oliver said on a sigh, “that woman can’t stay in one place long enough for anything to change.”

Raj frowned. “Where
is
Zoe? Shouldn’t she be here celebrating?”

“See what I mean?” Oliver had called her four times since they’d finished, but each time he was sent to voice mail. He’d talked to Tessa, who they’d agreed would watch Evan today. Tessa had exchanged texts with Zoe but had no idea where she was.

Frustration pushed him up from the table and to the door. “Like I said, she has a tendency to disappear.”

“Where are you going?”

“Check on the patient.”

“Keep it impersonal, Oliver,” Raj warned. “Stress is the enemy.”

Oliver shot Raj a look as he walked out. Did he think Oliver didn’t realize that?

The patient room was dim and Pasha’s eyes were closed, but he knew better than to assume she was asleep. Still, he moved around quietly, checking the monitors but mostly watching her face.

Her expressionless, calm, and very much alive face.

God, he wanted to save this woman’s life, despite the fact that he suspected she didn’t have a lot of years left. Still, if she made it to eighty-five or eighty-eight or even ninety, he’d have given her a gift.

What would she do with it? Hopefully, explain why she’d sat on that letter for nine years, then left it as some kind of explanation or act of goodwill.

Her lids fluttered and she opened her eyes slowly to focus on him.

“Hello there, Pasha,” he said softly.

“Actually, my name is Patricia.”

Either the drugs made her want to be honest, or the realization that she could be knocking on death’s door had done the trick. Either way, he took a slow step closer to the bed. “I know that,” he said simply.

“And Zoe’s name is Bridget.”

He nodded. “I know that, too.”

“I know you do. I remember it all.”

Was she lucid enough to remember why she’d hidden the letter he’d written that somehow did manage to get forwarded to her? Because he’d sure as hell like to know. And why she decided to share it now? And while she was remembering things, what had really happened with that boy of hers?

But not now. The doctor in him knew the timing of those questions could be fatal.

Instead, Oliver gently lifted her hand to touch her pulse. “You don’t need to remember anything right now, Pasha. I want you to sleep. The more you sleep, the more your cells are going to reproduce and become healthy.”

She gave him a dubious look. “If it’s that easy, why isn’t everyone who has cancer having this treatment?”

“Everyone might, someday, thanks to pioneers like you. Are you in any pain?” he asked.

“No. Yes. Heartache.”

“Your chest hurts?”

“My heart. There’s a difference. It’s actually aching because I think it might be broken.”

“No, no, Pasha,” he reassured her. “Don’t get emotional. Not now.”

Her eyes flashed open. “Then when?”

“When you’re healthy and this has been a rousing success, then you and Zoe can—”

“Where is Zoe?”

He wished to hell he knew. “She’s not back yet.”

“Are we alone, then?”

“We are, but Pasha, I don’t want your blood pressure to go up and I don’t want your heart rate to increase, so I’m going to give you a seda—”

“I don’t want to sleep anymore.”

“You have to. Sleep is nearly as important a part of this treatment as the gene therapy itself. I’ll prepare an IV for—”

“I always knew you were the one for her.”

Then why screw with their chances by hiding that letter?
He tamped down the question and put his hand on her thin shoulder. “Not now, Pasha.”

She looked up at him. “What if I die?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he said with true confidence. “I think you’re going to live, and live well.”

“The only way for me to live well is to know you and Zoe are together.”

He clamped his mouth shut and turned to a cabinet where IV bags were kept.

“You know I’m right,” she said. “You should be together.”

“It seems we always have obstacles that keep us apart.”
Like you.

“Has she found the letter yet?”

Damn it. He wasn’t going to spend the day pushing the boundaries of modern medicine only to see her fail because of anxiety that he could have avoided. He didn’t answer, signing the forms as he entered the security code that kept the cabinet locked.

“Is she mad at me?”

I am.
“We’ve been too focused on today. As you should be,” he added with a stern look over his shoulder.

“Doctor…Oliver…I need to say something.” Her dark eyes flashed with desperation. “There’s so much more to the story than you understand. There’s more to my life, my past.…”

The heart monitor started to beep. “Not now, Pasha. You need to say it when you’re better.” He attached the sedative to the existing IV bag, snapping the opening in place to connect to her port.

“What if I die?”

“If you die, Zoe will be heartbroken, so I recommend you sleep.”

“But that…child…my child…”

The drip started, the IV open and successful. Nothing that was said now could upset her; she’d be asleep in a matter of two minutes.

In fact, in the next thirty seconds, thanks to the meds surging into her veins, every word she said would probably be the absolute, unvarnished truth. Might as well get it. There’d be no reaction to stress now, and she’d never remember what she’d told him.

“What about your child, Pasha?”

“You have to find Matthew.”

He let out a slow breath. “I don’t think that’s possible anymore,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “Matthew’s dead, isn’t he?”

Her eyes widened, more from fighting the need to close the lids than from alarm.

“Find him,” she whispered.

“How can I do that?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “All these years, I had to run from him.”

“From his memory or from what…happened to him?”

“From…the…killer. From Matthew.”

Oliver startled at the words, but Pasha did exactly the opposite, slipping into a deep sleep, completely still and completely silent.

“Dr. Bradbury!” In the hall, Wanda’s voice rose with an uncharacteristic note of panic. She stopped at the door, a little breathless.

“What’s the matter?”

“I got rid of them, but…” She shook her head. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Them? Who? What are you talking about?”

“The sheriff was here, with an FBI agent. They wanted to take Ms. Tamarin.”

“Take her?”

“She’s wanted in connection to a murder, Doctor.”

The murder of Matthew…but she’d just said he was the killer. Someone named Matthew had killed Matthew. Is that what she’d meant? And she’d been running from
him
all these years?

He glanced at the sleeping woman, his heart squeezing to put the puzzle pieces together with the same ease as his brilliant son assembled toy puzzles. Something was missing, someone named Matthew. Would Zoe know who Pasha was talking about? Would the sheriff and the FBI agent who’d just been sent away?

Someone knew, and Oliver meant to find out. Hustling out of the clinic, he realized that Raj was right. He cared about this patient. He cared about her, because Zoe did.

Now he had to fix her inside—and out.

“You are really, really good at this.” The balloon pilot, a sixty-something charmer named Syl, had let Zoe take over the operation of the balloon about twenty minutes after they hit their cruising altitude.

Since they’d been out, almost two hours now, Zoe had waited for the happy, light, mind-numbing relief that ballooning always gave her. It never came.

Sure, she’d enjoyed the excursion, floating over the Intracoastal Waterway and up the coast, and now she could see the question-mark-shaped island of Mimosa Key, which gave her a little thrill. “Do we have time to fly over Mimosa?”

“If you can get us there.” He gave her an easy, toothy smile. “Which I’m certain you can, since I’m gonna say you’re the best damn pilot I’ve seen in a long time.”

She laughed. “I’m pretty good at it, I’m not going to lie.”

She twisted the parachute regulator, pulling the cord to let some air escape, which dropped the balloon a few feet so they could catch an easterly breeze.

“You read the wind,” Syl said, his arms crossed as he leaned against an extra propane tank and watched her. “That’s not something that’s easy to teach.”

“Better know how if you want to go anywhere but up or down.”

“You do it on instinct,” he said, his voice rich with admiration. “I’ve seen older pilots fight the wind like a battle to the death. And lose. Men, too.”

She smiled, not fazed by his sexism or ageism, more concerned with the redline on the thermistor. But that was all good. “I lose other battles, but not with the wind. Oh, here we go.” The breeze caught the balloon and it swayed left, then right, then left again, drifting closer to Mimosa Key. “The trick will be getting us back to the mainland.”

“I can call my runners when we land,” Syl said. “That’s all part of my business.”

“If I can land up in Barefoot Bay, I could walk home.”

“You live on Mimosa Key?”

She pulled the chute again, catching a breeze like a windsurfer, the movement almost taking her breath away. But not her heavy heart.

“I live there temporarily,” she said. And wasn’t that the story of her life?

“Where you from?” he asked.

Good question, with no answer. “I live in Arizona. At the moment.”

“Good ballooning in Arizona. You pilot there?”

She turned her face to the sun, the breeze taking away all the heat, leaving nothing but glorious warmth on her cheeks. This was usually the moment she felt free, unencumbered, and safe.

But she didn’t really feel any of those things right now. She felt lonely and scared and so, so tired of running. “Yes,” she replied. “I freelance pilot wherever I live.”

“Why don’t you move here and work for me?”

Zoe almost laughed at the irony of that—exactly what Pasha had suggested she do when she’d seen the ad in the paper. Which, Zoe had to admit, might have been why she’d driven toward Fort Myers when she’d run off, checking the skies until she had caught a few glimpses of a bright-red-and-white balloon. On instinct, she’d followed it until she’d reached an open airfield owned by Sylver Sky.

It had taken a few hours to get a balloon, but she’d gotten to know the owner, Sylvester McMann, and just being at an airfield made her feel a little better.

Before she’d taken off she’d checked with the clinic. Everything was going well. Then she’d texted Tessa, who had informed her that Evan was enjoying a day working in the greenhouse. Cleared of her immediate responsibilities and forced to turn off her phone, Zoe seized the chance to get as far away from the sheriff—and the FBI—as she could. For now.

Then she waited for that natural high that came only with a good escape. But with every foot they climbed, she felt lower.

“Look, there’s the causeway,” she said, peering out at the long bridge that connected Mimosa Key to Florida’s mainland. From up here, the eight-mile-long and two-mile-wide curved island was even more beautiful, a forest-green sanctuary trimmed with white sand beaches, boat-studded harbors, and long docks reaching out like tentacles all around.

At the northern end, the west-facing inlet of Barefoot Bay glimmered like a necklace of emeralds and sapphires.

As they floated over the northeastern side of the island, Zoe got a look at the undeveloped side of Barefoot Bay, where there were no roads, homes, or people. Toward the coast, she spotted a clearing big enough to land.