Pursuit (6 page)

“
Buenas noches, mujer
,” she said, and was gone.

A few minutes later, a grinning twelve-year-old knocked on her door with the platter of fruit. Charlotte put it on the table. The scent of ripe tropical fruit filled the air. It wasn’t until she’d stripped to take a shower that she realized that she hadn’t paid for dinner and that the old lady hadn’t mentioned money once.

The shower was primitive, but it worked, and she felt as if she were washing more than the day’s grime off as she stood under the lukewarm spray, careful not to soak the bandages on her shoulder she’d changed at a service-station bathroom. Charlotte barely had the strength to put on her nightgown and slip beneath the bright green and red hand-loomed bedspread before falling into the deepest sleep of her life.

She slept for twenty-four hours straight.

For the next two days, Charlotte slept and ate and slept some more. Late in the morning of the third day, she took a little walk around the town. It didn’t take long. There might well be tourists later on in the season, but for now, San Luis seemed to be mainly a fisherman’s village and an artist’s colony. There were as many galleries selling watercolors and ceramic ware as there were food and fish shops.

Charlotte bought basic art supplies, some bread and cheese, and a bright pink handknitted sweater. The little outing exhausted her. She changed the bandages on her shoulder when she got back to the house, fell into bed, and slept for another hour. When she awoke in the early afternoon, she felt weak, but refreshed.

The azure sky outside the bedroom window was streaked with pale pink tendrils. The color was so entrancing, Charlotte was seized with the compulsion to capture it. In her long trek across the country, she’d been pushed to the edge and had barely survived. Painting, drawing, or even stopping for a second to admire beauty had all been beyond her. Now that she was at least temporarily safe and rested, the craving to draw was almost overwhelming.

She opened a bottle of white wine she’d found in the cubbyhole off the kitchen that served as a pantry, and poured herself a glass. Armed with wine, sketchpad, and a box of oil pastels, she went out to the tiled terrace.

And that was when she saw him.

A lost, broken soul. Just like her.

The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon as he made his slow way across the beach on crutches with arm cuffs. His progress across the beach was painful. He leaned on the crutches so heavily they sank deep into the soft sand as he walked, and he had to work to pull them out. He didn’t have the strength to pick his feet up, simply shuffling and kicking up puffs of sand with each step.

He was wearing only ragged cutoffs and sandals, unheeding of the chilly evening. It took the big man forever to cross the beach, one slow, agonizing step at a time. He stood at the water’s edge, swaying with fatigue.

He was outlined against the blue of the endless ocean, a huge man, but a pitiful wreck. Charlotte could pick out red, scarred welts on those broad shoulders. He’d had surgery recently, the stitch mark scars clearly outlined on his wide, bony back. To Charlotte’s astonishment, the man toed off his sandals, dropped the crutches and walked toward the sea. She leaned forward, wine, sketchpad, and colors forgotten. He walked slowly, painfully into the water. The wide beach was empty, little wavelets lapping at the shore.

Charlotte’s chest was so tight it hurt to breathe as she sat on the edge of her chair, watching the big wounded man as he waded into the water, a broad dark figure outlined in fiery red as he walked straight into the sun. She stood up, ready to rush toward the water.
Don’t do it!

Charlotte sent the fierce thought his way. She knew exactly how much it hurt to live, how deeply desperation could cut. Those scars spoke eloquently of pain, the kind that went deep and lasted a long time, the kind that left scars on the heart and soul, too. When the water reached the man’s chest, Charlotte rushed to the steps that would take her down to the beach.

She was a mediocre swimmer and had barely managed to pass her Red Cross beginners swimming course. The man was big, and, even as thin as he was, he’d be heavy. She had no idea if she could save his life if he was intent on suicide, but she knew she’d try. To the right was a long wooden quay where the fishermen moored their small boats at night. The boats were still out, the quay was deserted. The man dipped beneath the water, but before Charlotte could panic, he resurfaced. She could see his dark head pulling even with the quay.

Something about the way he moved in the water showed that he could swim, and swim well. His movements were slow but elegant, like her swim instructor’s had been. He swam slowly out past the quay, turned right, then right again toward shore, circling the quay. He wasn’t heading out to the open sea to drown himself. She let out her pent-up breath and sat down again.

Charlotte watched, puzzled, as he slowly turned back and rounded the quay once more. And again. And again.

Finally, she realized what he was doing. He was swimming the equivalent of laps, around a recognizable goal. On the tenth trip around the quay, he swam all the way back in to shore.

When he stood, she could see that he was exhausted, face pale, jaws clenched against the pain. He walked slowly out of the water until he reached the sand. To her astonishment, instead of picking up the crutches and limping back into town, he dropped to his knees, then onto his face.

She stood again, ready to rush to his rescue, when she saw his big hands brace against the hard-packed sand. He slowly, slowly lifted his torso up, one painful inch at a time. It was excruciating to watch. His hard, lean muscles quivered with the effort, sweat covering his face though it was a chilly evening. When he let himself back down, he lay facedown in the sand for a good ten minutes, panting. Then he did another push-up. And another.

And another.

It took him half an hour to do a set of ten push-ups, muscles straining, heartbreakingly slowly.

It was the most valiant thing she’d ever seen.

Charlotte stayed on her terrace and watched over him as the sun slowly sank beneath the sea. Inside, she was cheering him on, as if they were joined. As if his victory in some way meant that she, too, in the end, would prevail. When the last rays of light were draining from the sky, he sank to the sand one final time, lungs bellowing in and out, sweat staining his back and shoulders.

He lifted his head and looked straight up at her. His eyes were dark and piercing, jaw muscles clenched, deep lines of pain and effort bracketing his mouth. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned in triumph.

Through sudden tears, Charlotte felt her lips tilt upward as she smiled back. It felt so good to smile again.

Warrenton

April 25

After Charlotte escaped, it had taken Haine two full days to calm down. For forty-eight hours he was unable to sleep or to eat. He even found it hard to breathe, to expand his lungs against the tight bands of steel encasing his chest.

No one could tell he was panicking because he’d been moving all the right pieces in all the right places. Everything was in place. All Haine had to do was sit back and wait for his men to come up with a dead Charlotte.

It didn’t happen.

Charlotte had no money, and she’d been wounded.
Where the
fuck
has the bitch gone?

And how can she stay hidden for two full months?

Haine was sitting in his original Frank Lloyd Wright chair in front of the fire, frowning at the printout of an e-mail from Nat Lawrence, his man in the Pentagon.

Support for the Proteus Project is starting to wane
, Lawrence wrote. Lawrence had handed over several hundred thousand dollars under the table to a colonel and a two-star general in charge of appropriations. It was all set—until the shit had hit the fan. The corporate structure of Court Industries was under question, and the Pentagon couldn’t commit the money necessary for Proteus unless it was certain that the company was solidly behind the project.

This was it.

Haine had one card left to play. He reached for the phone.

San Luis

April 25

Charlotte watched over him every day after that. She took her sketchpad out on the terrace and drew while he slowly and painstakingly put himself back together. She never left her terrace while he was on the beach, keeping him always in sight. In some crazy way, she felt she was keeping him safe.

The second afternoon, he swam fifteen laps and did fifteen push-ups. It took him two and a half hours. When at the end he picked up his crutches, he moved excruciatingly slowly, as if in great pain.

Matt, his name was. Matt Sanders. He was staying with the American owner of a dive shop farther up along the beach. Both of them were former soldiers, Navy men. Matt Sanders had been badly wounded in Afghanistan. He’d received a chestful of medals for bravery, awarded while he was still in a coma. He had spent four months in a VA hospital and had only been released in late February.

Charlotte didn’t ask anyone for this information. It came her way in snatches, as she drank coffee and ate
polvorones
at the Cantina Fortuna, bought oranges and lemons from the greengrocer, and an easel and paints from the art supply shop.

Charlotte didn’t want to ask anything about the man—Matt. She didn’t want to meet him or talk to him. Everything she needed to know, she knew already. He’d been through hell and survived. Just like her.

Without a word, they developed a routine. She would sit and watch over his exercises, silently cheering him on. After a month, he was in better shape than most men and still pushing himself harder. After two months, he was stronger than any athlete she’d ever seen.

One evening, he went for his daily swim carrying a steel spear into the water. Charlotte watched curiously as he swam out toward the horizon. He swam for an hour every day now, far out into the bay, but never so far that she lost sight of his sleek dark head. He came out of the water with three fish spitted on the spear.

The next morning, she found two bream in a wicker basket on her porch. The morning after, a fistful of wildflowers in an empty soup can.

She brought the flowers to her face and breathed deeply. There were sprigs of rosemary and sage together with the flowers, and the scent was heady. The wild bouquet was lovely, a delicate hint of spring.

Spring
.

She’d survived the winter.

Humming, Charlotte spent the entire day painting watercolors of the can of flowers in a shaft of sunlight. She did eight of them, capturing each incarnation of the flowers as the quality of light changed. But she knew which one was for Matt. The first one, luminous with the early-morning light and hopefulness.

After dark, she made the short walk and slipped the watercolor under the dive shop door. She was smiling as she walked back to her house.

Two mornings after that, she found a conch shell outside her door. As big as her hand, rosy and convoluted. Utterly perfect.

She brought it to her ear and listened to the endless ocean pulsing inside. It was an oil painting this time, and she worked on it for two days straight. When she was finished, she placed it on the table and stood back. It was a small masterpiece, without a doubt the finest thing she’d ever done. The conch shell in the painting glowed against the dark wood of the table, catching all the light in the room, so beautiful it hurt the heart. That night, the painting wouldn’t slip under the door of the dive shop, so Charlotte simply leaned it against the wall beside the door. If Matt or his dive-shop-owner friend found it, fine. If someone stole it, then that someone would have something beautiful. It didn’t really matter.

All she knew was that each quiet, serene day painting and watching over her wounded warrior was a day in which she grew stronger. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know when, but one day she’d clear her name and avenge her father’s murder. One day, the weather turned unexpectedly cold. The water was gray and choppy. Matt had taken to long runs along the beach, at times in full gear and combat boots. Back and forth, back and forth on the packed wet sand. It looked hard and useless, but Charlotte watched over him anyway. If that was what he wanted to do, she would wish him godspeed.

This afternoon, with the sky pewter gray and the water white with squalls, he ran back to the quay and, to Charlotte’s utter astonishment, ran straight into the ocean. Fully dressed and with boots on.

She would have sunk like a stone if she had been dressed like that, but he bobbed up and started swimming powerfully.

Roiling black clouds gathered on the horizon, where usually there was a friendly setting sun at this hour. Sheet lightning lit the underside of the dark clouds. Matt made out for the open sea with strong, regular strokes.

The rumble of thunder echoed throughout the bay. Lightning flickered like a dragon’s tongue.

The sky lowered as wisps of fog came in. Charlotte’s heart started pounding as she watched Matt’s dark head moving steadily out to sea.

It became harder and harder to keep track of him as the waves rose and roiled. She’d been watching him from inside the house—it was too cold to stay out on the terrace—but all of a sudden she lost him. Anxious, Charlotte went out onto the terrace. Matt was nowhere to be seen. Charlotte scanned the horizon. She’d often lost sight of him for a moment or two, but he had always reappeared almost immediately, regular as clockwork. This time, she searched the sea in vain.