Ransomed Dreams (3 page)

“This is only me here. I wasn’t followed.”

“Extenuating circumstances.” “This is only me here.” Then . . . why?
She avoided his gaze, fearing what she might see. Fearing what she might convey.

“Sheridan, I didn’t come for what you’re thinking.” He hadn’t lost his uncanny ability to sense what was on her mind. “This is not between you and me.”

Relief gave way to a twinge of disappointment. There was nothing between them. Good. She wouldn’t want that complication. “All—all right. Th-then . . .” Now she stuttered. She really should have stayed in bed that morning.

“As I said, we’ll wait for Eliot before getting into why I came.”

A new fear took hold. Something had happened. Something beyond her control would hit her. Again. She wasn’t ready. She just wasn’t ready. Handling surprises was another of those unhealed areas.

Luke looked beyond her shoulder.
“Hola, señorita.”

Sheridan turned to see Mercedes, the young woman who worked for her, and struggled to compose herself.

Luke stood and reached for the coffee tray Mercedes carried, speaking easily in his fluent Spanish. “Let me take that.”

“Gracias, señor.”

“Luke,” Sheridan said, “this is Mercedes Rodriguez. She lives with us.” She caught the eighteen-year-old’s playful smile. “What do I call you?”

Mercedes turned to Luke. “I am . . . ,” she said in English and then paused, jutting her chin, stretching to her full height, which at the most was four-eleven. “I am Señora Montgomery’s backup.”

Luke chuckled. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Luke Traynor, business associate.”

Business associate.
That was generic enough. It blended, like his appearance, into any situation. It was, like his appearance, easily
not
recalled.

He held the tray while Mercedes transferred the coffee carafe and other items to the table. True to both their friendly demeanors, they exchanged pleasantries.

A flush of gratitude surprised Sheridan. In all honesty, where would she be without these people? They were both her “backups.” Without Luke, she’d be dead. Without Mercedes, she’d be curled on the floor in a fetal position, unable to take another step in the perplexing maze that defined this new life.

Even now Mercedes was covering for her. Twenty minutes ago, the girl had found Sheridan in the kitchen, fussing over coffee beans scattered from one end of the room to the other. With soft, shushing coos, Mercedes had held Sheridan’s hands and walked her out the door. Sheridan knew that the humble teen would prepare and deliver the best coffee in the village along with a basket of pastries.

True, it was a less-dramatic rescue than Luke’s, but a rescue all the same and of the sort that was performed over and over again.

Sheridan wondered, though, who was going to rescue her from whatever surprise awaited her.

Chapter 4

Eliot awoke totally alert, every brain cell at attention and ready to respond.

Which startled him.

He never woke up totally alert, at least not since before that business in Caracas. How was it Sheridan put it? B.C.E. At least not since then.

Since then, he experienced two approaches to waking. Either he swam through an opiate-induced fog or he thrashed about until some limb thwacked the wall. Neither of those had happened. He just opened his eyes, his body at rest. No pain, no grogginess from painkillers.

The bedroom was dark and quiet. Thanks to thick adobe walls, shutters on the east window, and heavy curtains on the north French doors, it could be noon or midnight for all he knew. He glanced sideways. The clock was facedown on the nightstand, but he made no effort to right it. He lay still, not moving a muscle for fear of setting off alarms to wake up the monsters that wrenched and gouged every inch of his body day in and day out.

Today should have been the fog wake-up call. There was no rhyme or reason to his nights, but last night was one of the unbearable sort when the pain seared, emanating from a place so deep it seemed to exist outside of himself, a place where drugs could not go.

In lucid moments, like now, he realized how odd that sounded.

Nonetheless, he would take the maximum doses, as he had last night, in hopes of even a small bit of relief. Sheridan sat with him, as she always did on such nights, and massaged his hip and lower back and neck. She would have turned the clock upside down, not wanting to be aware of the number of passing hours.

All right, God. You’ve got my attention. Why the reprieve?

The unbidden prayer startled him less than the alertness. He had been silently talking to God since A.C.E. Who else could undo what had been done? His life had been taken from him, his world not only turned upside down but cut open and shaken empty of everything but pain.

He didn’t blame God. Evil existed. Eliot did not have the wherewithal to figure out why he had brushed up against it and God hadn’t protected him. He did not have the stamina to recall the prayers of his childhood or even the stories about Jesus. His strength accommodated only one prayer: for God to remove the pain that the doctors said would never go away.

Is it gone?

He continued to lie perfectly still, curious but too frightened to move in order to find out whether it was gone or not.

His new world was a painful and scary place.

The fog rolled in, no doubt leftovers from last night’s medication. He swam toward it, grateful for the escape.

Chapter 5

After Mercedes went back inside the house, Sheridan poured coffee and handed a mug to Luke.

“Thanks.” He took a sip and his eyes widened. “Mm.”

“Mm-hmm. Wait until you try her
bolillos
.”

He lifted the napkin on the basket and took out a bread roll. “She’s delightful.”

“She’s a godsend.” Sheridan rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes against the sun. “Eliot had a bad night. I don’t know when he’ll be available to see you.”

“Not a problem.” He spoke around a mouthful of bread. “How is he?”

“I told you.”

“You said ‘about as well as could be expected.’ That’s a synonym for
fine
. It doesn’t say much.”

“Why don’t you ask whoever told you how to find us how he is?”

Luke didn’t reply.

There was no need for him to ask anybody how Eliot was or how she was. The answer was written plainly all over her. It was in the road map etched around her eyes. It showed in the lack of cosmetics to brighten the brown eyes or sallow skin, in the shaggy hair left to its own wavy tendencies, its auburn silvering unchecked. It showed in the hint of accumulated tortillas beneath the elastic waistband of her gypsy skirt. It was in the echo of her angry tone.

She wanted to cry. The arrival of Luke Traynor was like ripping off a scab, exposing raw nerve ends.

She whispered, “They were just beginning to leave me alone.”

“They?”

The images swamped her, their horror as intense as ever. A blood-spattered sidewalk. Her husband sprawled facedown, scarcely alive. Her coworker Reina on her back, already horribly, obviously dead. The storefront windows shattered like her watch crystal. The end of the world as she knew it at twelve minutes, thirty-five seconds past ten. Luke whisking her away, window-glass slivers, the shards of her life’s work, crunching under his feet.

Luke’s chair scraped across the tiles. She sensed him moving close to her.

“Sher.”

She opened her eyes. He sat hunched over in his chair, elbows on his knees, the closeness of him forcing eye contact. It was how he would get her attention in the hospital or the hotel. At times when she flailed on the edge of insanity’s pit, he’d pulled her back through the sheer power of his presence.

She didn’t want to depend on him again. She did not want to grow accustomed to his face again.

“Go away, Luke.”

“I know I’ve violated your safety zone. I’ve invaded and most likely destroyed your carefully constructed cocoon, not just the Topala one but your emotional one. You know I would not have come if it weren’t necessary. I told you sixteen months ago that, all things being equal, you would never see me again. I am so sorry. Things just got unequal.”

She didn’t want to hear what things got unequal. Things were always unequal when Luke Traynor was in the vicinity.

She had first met him in Honduras, where Eliot served as an assistant to the ambassador. Luke arrived, a foreign service officer on a temporary assignment. Despite his affable demeanor, something about him unsettled her. Later he joined them again, that time in Venezuela, and her reaction to him remained the same.

In Honduras, her husband had been on the fast track to an ambassadorship, which he was awarded in Venezuela. Like his father and grandfather before him, he was a political appointee. As his wife, Sheridan was privileged to live a lifestyle that sometimes embarrassingly bordered on royalty. When she wasn’t attending an elegant dinner party with heads of state, she immersed herself in her passion of social work. As if those ingredients didn’t create the yummiest of cakes, there was the icing on top it all: she loved and adored Eliot, who loved and adored her in return. Joy and satisfaction filled their days.

Naturally, all was not perfect. They trafficked in politics and poverty and the darkness that accompanied those realities. While Eliot negotiated in the limelight, others were involved in undercover shenanigans. Others like Luke.

It was never acknowledged that Luke was a spy. On the surface he was a public diplomacy officer. He was the voice of the U.S. when it came to explaining American policies and values to the citizens of his host country.

But both times he’d worked in her husband’s embassies, political unrest had ensued. He might not have been directly responsible, but Sheridan thought he fit the bill. The bottom line was that if not for their silly games of intrigue, Eliot would still be the ambassador. She would still be engaged in real work, not nursing an invalid.

In the past, whenever she voiced concerns to Eliot about fomenters and turmoil, he would smile and say, “Welcome to life in the diplomatic lane. We’ll just keep our heads down and pretend they’re not here, all right?” His chipper spin was unflagging.

Then came the shooting. It took little effort for her to connect the presence of Luke Traynor with her husband’s being chosen as a target. If Luke perpetrated the unrest, the backlash could naturally strike out at the ambassador. It was her personal theory, one she never bothered sharing.

The irony of it all was that the man responsible for the violence was the one who saved her from it. Perpetrator and rescuer. Bad guy, guardian angel. The man she fell in love with when she wasn’t looking.

She blamed it on how he went above and beyond angel duty. In the chaos of that awful day and in subsequent weeks, he stayed with her like stickiness on glue. She was whisked with her injured husband from one hospital to another, from Venezuela to the States. Friends and embassy staff could not get to her. Luke, though, never left her side.

He guided her through her own medical care for a broken arm and cracked ribs. He deciphered needs she could not articulate and arranged to have them met. Through doctors’ pronouncements that Eliot was not going to make it, Luke held her tightly and would not let her imagine the funeral.

She figured he did it all out of a guilty conscience.

And yet she would not have survived the ordeal without him.

Whatever. It was over.

Luke broke into her thoughts. “I’m sorry, but I did have to come.”

“You bring the past with you, and I just can’t go there.”

“I don’t want you to. Tell me about now.”

“I don’t talk about now either, about how Eliot and I are now. We just are. Okay? I say we’re fine, and that keeps me moving forward.”

“You passed the one-year anniversary. Did you celebrate it in some way?”

She stared at him, struck as always by his understanding. “We had champagne and lobster. Caviar, too.”

“Cake?”

“Sure. An entire sheet cake. One candle, U.S. and Venezuelan flags outlined in full color on vanilla icing. Invited the whole village.”

He smiled in a gentle way. “Seriously, Sher. You’ve lived with this for over a year now. Through birthdays and holidays. Your wedding anniversary. You made it. That is a huge deal.”

She had hoped so. She had hoped it would mark a turning point, that Eliot would finally just buck up and be
present
despite everything. That he would lose the deaf-mute persona. That their ordeal with post-trauma symptoms would fade into oblivion.

But when she had told Eliot the date and hinted at new days ahead, he’d moved a bony shoulder, the closest semblance to a shrug that he could muster. The anniversary was far from a huge deal. Another six months had passed with no hint of change.

“What’s life like here in Topala? What do you do for fun? Any volleyball teams around?”

She clenched her hands into fists on her lap. Luke was coercing her to talk about herself. It both repelled and comforted her that he could still do that.

“Yeah, right. Volleyball.” She winced. The lack of physical exercise was bad enough, but even worse was the lack of camaraderie she’d always enjoyed through team sports. “I walk.”

“Great vertical climbs here.”

“Yeah. And I paint.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. It’s about as artistic as a paint-by-numbers kit. It’s a tool, a way to work out anxiety. A counselor suggested it.”

“What exactly do you paint?”

She exhaled in frustration. “Local scenes. Acrylics on four-by-six pieces of Masonite. The sculptor sells them in his shop to tourists. Can you believe it? People actually pay money for my trauma-induced hobby.”

“They must be attractive if people buy them.”

“They’re mediocre souvenirs.”

A seam appeared between his eyes. The gray-green darkened to all gray.

Her breath caught. “You knew about them, didn’t you?”

Before his eyes went blank again, she saw his answer.
Yes.