Not Without The Truth

Meredith’s voice held her first hint of impatience. “Have you seen anything—”

“I’m not that close to Machu.”

“No, but you’re not that far and a lot of people visit those smaller ruins close to where you live, too. She could have done that.”

“It’s possible,” he said reluctantly, “but I’ve heard nothing.”

“When was the last time you went into the village?”

The clinic was located near a dot on the map called Rojo. It was located between Cuzco and the ruins of Machu Picchu. “I haven’t been to Rojo in a month,” he said. “Maybe two. I forget.”

Meredith made a tsk-tsking sound. “You’re turning into el ermitaño, Armandito….”

“A hermit is better than what they call me now.”

“The locals still think you can make yourself invisible?”

“They must,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing but el médico del fantasma could do so, I presume.”

“You need to get out more,” she remarked. “Go to Rojo for me. Be my ears and eyes. I want to call this man and help him out.”

“And if we cannot do that?”

“Then I’ll tell him that, too,” she said. “But you have to ask around first. I don’t want to lie to him either way.”

Armando sighed. He didn’t want to get involved, but guilt was a powerful motivator—and a heavy weight. Of all the cases in his past, why had this one come back? He’d lost more sleep over the little girl with the haunting eyes than he had over any of his other assignments.

“How would I know her?” he asked reluctantly.

“I’ll fax you a photo. She won’t be hard to miss. Believe me, if she’s anywhere around there, you’ll know. She’s gorgeous. Blond, blue eyes, thin. She looks like a supermodel.” Meredith hesitated, then corrected herself. “No, wait. Actually, that’s not quite true. She looks like her mother. Exactly like her. Do you remember her?”

“Yes.”

Oblivious to what his one-syllable answer signified, Meredith continued. “Maybe you’ll fall in love with her,” she teased. “And move back to the States like Cruz and Stratton. You could have three children and buy a big ranch in Texas. You’d make lots of money, you know.”

“I need no more money,” he said, staring out into the night. “And I don’t want a wife and three children. Or a ranch in Texas.”

Finally sensing his mood, she spoke with a serious tone. “Then what do you want, Armando? Cruz has found his place in the world and Stratton has gotten himself straightened out. They seem happy. When are you going to give up being the broody Latin and do the same?”

“I’m thrilled for them,” he said. “But I’m not sure that condition will ever find me.”

“It doesn’t just fall into your lap,” she said sharply. “You have to search for it.”

“You’re correct as usual,” he said. “But I carry too many images of death. They visit me without invitation and linger in the corners. I don’t need to look for anything more, much less happiness. “

“We’ve done a lot of good, Armando.”

“I know that. I’m still a believer, don’t worry.”

“Then concentrate on that. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself insane.”

“Your advice is wise, Meredith, but it comes too late.” His voice went quiet and low with regret. “I’ve done things I shouldn’t have and left too many other things undone.”

They hung up without saying goodbye. A moment later, the fax on his desk rang shrilly. Armando walked to the machine and watched the picture of Lauren Stanley emerge, line by line. When the photo was complete, he continued to stare. Meredith had been correct. The little girl he’d seen had turned into a stunning woman. If she was anywhere near Rojo or even Aquas Caliente, the larger village upriver, he would have heard by now.

Picking up the fax, he crumpled it out of habit then put a match to the wad of paper. White ash fell like snow into the metal wastebasket at his feet.

He went back to bed but sleep didn’t join him.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW where she was.

Pain was her only constant. For days, she hadn’t been able to move without wanting to scream. When the aches had started to ease, the fever had begun. She’d lost track of time, the edge between darkness and day blurring until she no longer knew—or cared—if the sun or the moon shone.

The hut where she lay was thatched and a mosquito net covered the space above her. There was nothing in the room but her bed and a small table beside it. In contrast, a window opening to the right framed a scene that looked more like a Gauguin painting than any actual place she’d ever been.

A woman came in several times a day and checked on her. Sometimes in the middle of the night—or maybe the middle of the day, she wasn’t sure which—a man came, too. He was lean and gaunt with sunken eyes that frightened her. He never spoke. He did nothing but look at her.

She didn’t know where she was.

She didn’t know who she was.

THE DAY AFTER MEREDITH CALLED, Armando went into Rojo, but no one in the village had seen a gringa. He returned home and put the woman out of his mind. When Meredith called a week later, he told her he knew nothing.

“Dammit, I hate having to call Freeman Stanley and tell him that. Are you sure no one’s seen her?”

He let his silence answer the question.

“What should I do?” she asked in a worried voice.

He shook his head at her ploy. “Don’t try to pull one of your tricks on me, Meredith. You asked me to see if Lauren Stanley had been here and that is what I did. If this was a real assignment, I would stop and do anything you asked, you know that, but otherwise my days here are very full already. I have the clinic and the villages and the children. I did not join the Operatives to find missing daughters for worried daddies.”

“Stanley has called me too many times to count. He offered us a lot of money.”

“And I told you last time we spoke that I have no need of that.”

“Maybe you don’t,” she said, “but what about your clinic? When I saw you at Cruz’s wedding, you said the place continuously required new equipment and stronger drugs and more staff and better beds—”

He interrupted her as she had him. “The funds this man could give us wouldn’t make a dent in what we lack. And the time it would take to do the job, to find this woman, I do not have it, Meredith.”

“Your time I can’t replace,” she said. “But you’re wrong about the money.” She named a figure that shocked him. “You could buy a lot of aspirin with that, Armando. A donation that size could keep the clinic running for years. You could even hire another doctor.” She paused then added in a mocking voice, “A real doctor.”

Armando was a psychiatrist and Meredith liked to tease him about it. He ignored her taunt this time, however, and thought of the infant he’d seen yesterday. One listen through his stethoscope and he’d known that the child had a serious heart defect, probably congenital. Other symptoms had confirmed his suspicions—the pale skin, the wheezing breath, the lethargy. Any medium-size hospital in the States could have corrected the problem, but here the baby had no chance.

“I’ll call you in two days.” He made the promise abruptly then hung up.

Later that morning, his housekeeper, who also served as a nurse at the clinic, came to his study. Zue was Quechuan and eighty. She worked hard but her grandson, Beli, who also helped around the compound, did just the opposite. Knowing Armando would pay him regardless, he put out as little effort as possible.

“There are people here,” she sniffed. “From Qunico. I told them the clinic was closed but they won’t go away. They’re farmers.”

Armando had learned a long time ago not to point out what he thought were the discrepancies in Zue’s complicated class hierarchy. “Send them in,” he said.

Under Zue’s watchful eyes, the two men shuffled inside. Wrapped in woven blankets, they were exhausted and filthy. Qunico was fifty miles east of Rojo and even if they had had a vehicle, there was nothing but a rough path between the two. They’d either walked or ridden mules. Armando studied them but they both seemed healthy.

The taller of two spoke haltingly. “Señor Doctor, we have a woman in our village. She is hurt and very sick. She needs your help. You are the only one who can save her.”

Armando stilled. Something inside told him he knew the answer to his question, but he asked it anyway. “The woman is a gringa, no? With blond hair and ojos azules?”

The men exchanged a startled look and Armando realized he’d just added to the rumors that swirled about him. They came to him for help, but most of the villagers were frightened of him—they thought he could read their minds, disappear at will and heal with a touch. He didn’t like the mystery they’d built up around him, but sometimes it proved useful, he had to admit.

“What’s wrong with her?” Armando asked.

Their explanation came out in a jumble of Spanish and Quechuan but even if one language had prevailed, it wouldn’t have mattered. They were too overwhelmed to get the tale told in any kind of order. Armando held his hand up after a few moments and halted the flow.

“Por favor, amigos, one thing at a time. Start at the beginning.”

The taller man, clearly the leader, paused and tried to organize his thoughts. Finally he shook his head in a gesture of defeat. “We don’t know the beginning, señor.”

Armando frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t know where she came from or how she escaped, but Xuachoto had her in his arms for a very long time. We think maybe he wanted to claim her for a new bride, but Mariaita wouldn’t let him. He had to give her up.”

The locals followed a convoluted mixture of Catholicism and Inca myths that had evolved through the centuries, their leader, Manco, serving as both priest and mayor. Armando hadn’t bothered to study the intricacies of the system but some of his ignorance was not his own fault. When the clinic had opened and the locals had seen what Armando’s medicines could do, they’d begun to bypass the old man’s rites and gone directly to Armando’s clinic for healing. In return, Manco deliberately made things more difficult because he resented what he perceived to be Armando’s healing powers and was jealous of his abilities.

Armando knew enough to recognize the name of their water god, Xuachoto, though, and his jealous wife, Mariaita. A chill came over him despite the heat and he dreaded hearing the answer to his next question.

“Are you telling me the gringa was in the river when you found her?”

They nodded in unison, then the shorter man spoke reverently. “Xuachoto had her. Manco fought hard, but he couldn’t bring her back from the other side. We know you can do better.”

“She’s dead?” Armando asked in alarm.

“No, señor, she is not dead.” He sent an uneasy look to his companion then faced Armando again. “But she is not alive, either.”

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN SHE FIRST HEARD the voices, she thought she was dreaming, then she became more aware of her surroundings and realized her mistake.

“I can take care of her,” a man said. “Your assistance is not needed here. They should never have bothered you with this.”

She struggled to open her eyes, her lids weighed down by sleep and pain. The man who spoke was the one she’d seen come into her tent before. His voice reverberated with a frightening kind of fervor.

“I am confident that you are able to handle the situation, Manco.” The second man answered in the same language of the first—Spanish—but his voice was much kinder, its tones softened by a sophisticated accent and polished manner. “I mean no disrespect. I merely want to help.”

She fought against her stupor and forced her eyes to stay open so she could study the visitor. His eyes were two black stones, polished and bright, his skin a burnished brown, his hair straight and black. He had the right coloring but she didn’t think he was local. For one thing, he wore American jeans and a T-shirt. Her guess was based on his attitude rather than what he had on, however. He had an air of authority about him, a self-confidence that told her he wasn’t about to give in to the man who stood before him. Her eyes shut again.

“I brought her back from the dead.” The tall man’s voice penetrated her fog but just barely. “If not for me, she would be in the ground at this very moment. Her family would be crying and lighting candles.”

“That may be true,” the stranger replied politely. “But you can’t talk to her and I can.”

“I speak the language of healing. English isn’t necessary.”

A paused filled the hut. As it grew, she beat her lethargy and turned to look at them again. The two men stared at each other, their faces filled with tension, and as she watched, the American, which she guessed him to be, stepped even closer to the older man, their chests now almost touching. His voice was so low she could hardly make out what he said. The steady conviction behind it, however, was unmistakable.

“You’re a very busy man, Manco. You have the farm to run, the animals to oversee, your people to guide. I’m sure you could handle this problem, but you don’t need another person to look after.” He paused, his silky voice at once respectful but threatening. “The burden of the woman’s care would require too much of your valuable attention. Your village could suffer. Your men were thinking of you when they came and asked for my assistance.”

He was offering a way to save face, which was nice because the outcome of this argument was not in question. The American was going to get what he wanted, in any event. For some reason, she suspected that was not unusual.

She didn’t know what Manco saw as he studied the man’s face but he must have read something in his expression that gave him pause. After a moment so long Lauren wasn’t sure it would end, he stepped back and held out his hand. “You are right, Doctor, as usual. Your wisdom far outweighs my own. I had not thought of the problem in those terms.”

The man in the T-shirt shook his head. “No one’s wisdom is greater than yours, Manco. The problem is your heart. It is too big. You try to help everyone.”

“You flatter me, but I will accept your praise.” The man smiled as he spoke but it wasn’t genuine. He wasn’t happy, yet there was nothing more that he could do. He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to leave. “I’ll send someone to help carry her out.”

Before Manco had even left the hut, the doctor, if that’s what he was, was at the edge of her bed and lifting the mosquito netting. He appeared pleased by her open eyes.

“You’re awake. That is good. Very good. You didn’t seem to know I was here when I first arrived and examined you.”

He stuck out his hand and confirmed his title. “I’m Armando Torres. I’m going to take you to my clinic so I can see to your injuries. It’s not far from here. Do you think you can make it?”

She attempted to speak but all that came out was a croak.

“Save your energy.” He brushed a curl of her hair off her forehead in a soothing gesture, misinterpreting her effort. “We don’t need to be polite. The niceties can wait.”

She had to try again. “Do you…”

He put his fingers over hers, his kind manner and authoritative air instantly winning her trust. “Do I what?” he asked, his eyes puzzled.

Her gaze fastened on his as if she could pull the answer from him. “Do you know who I am?”

ARMANDO STARED DOWN at Lauren Stanley in shock. When the men who’d retrieved him had said she wasn’t alive, he hadn’t understood. Defensive and angry, Manco had explained the situation with more arrogance than usual and left out the details as well. The Quechuan believed in more than a single state of being, he’d said haughtily, and Lauren’s ailment reflected one that was highly mystical. Armando had accepted the lecture, but he’d had no idea Manco had been referring to amnesia.

“You don’t know your name?” he asked in surprise.

She shook her head then winced at the movement. She was so pale beneath her tan, Armando thought he could see through her skin.

“I can remember a few things,” she said haltingly. “But I don’t know why I’m here or what I do.”

She waited for him to fill her in but Armando didn’t answer right away. Beneath the pallor and grime, she certainly looked like the photo Meredith had sent him, but Armando didn’t like to make assumptions and he wasn’t about to start now. “Did you have things with you?” he asked instead.

“I don’t know.” A look of frustration crossed her delicate features. “I tried to ask, but my sign language skills aren’t too good.”

Armando walked to the doorway. Tiachita, Manco’s housekeeper, lounged on the porch, her need for activity apparently less developed than Zue’s. She looked up as he spoke.

“Did the blonde have anything with her? A bag? Papers? Anything?”

Tiachita stood with a languid grace and walked to the kitchen of the hut, which was housed in a separate building off to one side. She returned a second later and handed him a small ripped windbreaker.

“This is it?”

She gave him the exact reply he’d expected. A slow nod of her head. He cursed beneath his breath and retraced his steps, flipping open the coat as he walked. If Lauren Stanley had fallen in the river with an entire suite of Vuitton luggage, the answer would have been the same. Unattended items didn’t last long in this part of the world. He was surprised even to have this.

He paused on the front porch and looked at the inside tag. Someone had written Lauren Stanley, Dallas, Texas, in small block letters at the top in indelible ink. Luxury had been printed underneath her name.

“There’s nothing left,” he declared when he came back to her side, “except this.”

She raised her head. “A ratty jacket? That’s it?”

He nodded as she fought to focus, her small source of energy obviously depleted.

“There’s a name on the tag,” he said.

In the dim light, her blue eyes seemed to glow. “What is it?”

“Lauren Stanley,” he said. “‘Dallas, Texas’ is written just below it.”

She repeated what he’d said then her eyes filled. “I’ve never heard that name before,” she whispered. “If that’s who I am, it’s news to me.”

LAUREN STANLEY DROPPED BACK into a fitful sleep and Armando began to organize the trip back to the clinic. It would have taken less than an hour in an ambulance, but patient transportation here had as much in common with its international counterparts as he did with Manco.

Lining the wooden floor of a cart with pillows and blankets, the men made a bed for Lauren, then attached the rig to the back of Armando’s battered motorcycle. When they finished, he stared at it and shook his head. She was going to feel every bump and rut in the path between Qunico and the clinic but he couldn’t give her anything to knock her out. Until he had a better handle on her injuries, he couldn’t risk the complications that might arise.

He went back inside and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her head in her hands. Tiachita stood beside her. “Very dizzy,” the housekeeper said. “Very bad. No can walk.”

Tiachita seemed to support her boss’s bid to keep Lauren. Ignoring her try, Armando took a bottle of water from his backpack and handed it to Lauren. “You’re probably dehydrated,” he said. “It comes up on you fast out here.”

She accepted the water without comment, her dazed state and slowed movements disturbing to him. Had she hit her head while she’d been in the water? He hadn’t been able to see any signs of contusions but reactions to injuries like that could be delayed. A whole host of other possibilities raced through his mind, some of them with outcomes that could be very serious.

He capped the water bottle and dropped it into his pack. “You ready?”

Instead of answering, she tried to stand, but she swayed instead, her legs going out from beneath her. Grabbing her arms, Armando caught her just before she went down completely.

“Oh, God,” she murmured. “I think the woman is right. No can walk.”

Armando chuckled. “You don’t have to walk. I’m going to carry you. Just put your arms around my neck.”

She did as he instructed and he lifted her easily. Too easily. She’d probably carried ten pounds more before her accident. She’d lost none of her beauty, though. The luminous skin, the clear blue eyes, the heart-shaped face, they were all there now, the promise he’d seen in her features as a child now fulfilled.

When he laid her in the cart she groaned and curled on her side. Rearranging the pillows to better cushion her, Armando said a quick prayer then straddled the cycle and aimed it down the path.

THEIR RETURN WASN’T as bad as Armando had thought it would be. Maybe the Quechuan gods were impressed with Lauren Stanley’s altered state. Whatever it was, Armando didn’t care. He was grateful they got back to the clinic before nightfall. He’d been stranded before in the night in the surrounding jungle and it hadn’t been fun. The experience wouldn’t have been any better with an injured woman to care for.

The muffled hum of his motorcycle shattered the quiet as he pulled into the clinic’s compound. Zue hurried out to meet him, her tongue clicking before he could say anything. With a flick of her wrist, she had three men out to help. They gently lifted the blonde and carried her inside while Zue berated them the entire distance, cautioning them not to bump the patient while at the same time hurrying them toward the clinic’s four-bed hospital. Armando shook the dust from his clothing and went to clean himself up. Zue would bathe Lauren, then he’d examine her. They never had too many patients at one time but there was generally a steady stream. He and his nurse had their routine down.

He was stepping out of the shower when his cell phone rang. Seeing the caller ID number, he picked up the phone and, without thinking, fell into the coded speech he and Meredith used when discussing a job.

He greeted her, then said, “I have the package you were looking for—it was found late yesterday afternoon. Apparently it’d been around for a while but I hadn’t heard.”

She followed his lead, her voice relieved. “Armando, that’s great! It wasn’t…damaged, was it?”

“There’s some dents and scratches on the outside but I believe everything is okay on the inside. I haven’t had a chance to open it yet and see.”

“Where was it all this time?”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll call you later when the rates go down and explain.” This meant he’d e-mail her, but as he expected, Meredith didn’t have the patience for that.

“Tell me now,” she insisted. “The manufacturer wants to know.”

“It got wet,” he said with a sigh, “and had to be fished out of a nearby river. I’m not sure how it ended up there, but that’s basically what happened.”

“But it’s okay?” she asked again.

He hesitated and tried to think of a way to avoid the topic of Lauren’s amnesia. He needed to examine her before he could address that subject adequately, but his reluctance went beyond that. Something about the situation had begun to bother him during the trip home, but he couldn’t yet define what it was.

“Basically, it is okay. Yes.” He paused and Meredith sensed that he was holding something back.

“But?”

He licked his lips and stared out the window beside the desk where he stood. Night came swiftly in Peru and it was totally black outside now. He’d never seen a place with such an absence of light and he’d been in plenty of dark places in his life.

“I think it might be best if you could wait a bit before calling the manufacturer.”

“Why is that?” Her voice took on a puzzled but cautious note. “He’s quite anxious to hear any news we can give him.”

“I can see why,” Armando replied, “but something doesn’t feel right. You know what I mean?”

“I probably do,” she said with a weary sigh. “I’ll hold off if you think that’s best.”

“I do,” he said. “But I can’t give you a reason why right now. Maybe later I’ll understand better.” His eyes searched the void through the screen. “And then again,” he added, “maybe I won’t.”