Mountain Retreat

“I’m sorry about what happened at the house.”

“I can’t imagine what our neighbors think.” Her memory pulled up a grim recollection of police vehicles and ambulances, flashing lights and gunfire. After that circus, she was pretty sure that nobody on their block would ask her to babysit. “We’ll have to make it up to them. Maybe have a barbecue.”

“Yeah, nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ like pulled pork.”

His voice went still. A heavy silence invaded the bedroom. The distance between them spread like a fading echo.

Was she doing the right thing? The temptation was great to put aside her concerns and make love to him, but she had to make things right. She wanted their relationship to be the way it was before.

“As long as you’re here,” she said, “I want to know what happened in Tiquanna.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then he stood and walked away. She opened her eyes and watched as he went to the window and pulled the curtain aside to look outside. Moonlight traced his profile. “It’s a long story, and you’re tired. Maybe tomorrow.”

He was avoiding the topic. He didn’t want to tell her, but she had to know. “We’ve got time.”

“Okay,” he said. “Remember what the country was like when you visited a couple of years ago? Tropical climate, lush and humid. Rain forests. Villages with thatched roof huts. Tourists in the capital city on the Atlantic coast. Abundant natural resources.”

Her most vivid memories were the heat like a steam bath, the brilliant green of indigenous foliage and odd creatures like lizards and frogs and insects. Less charming was a filthy hospital, beggar children on the streets and a long line of women waiting by a supply truck for freshwater. “I remember.”

“Your company didn’t invest in oil exploration there,” he said.

“Lack of infrastructure.”

He nodded. “Like roads and plumbing.”

Thinking of the children, she said, “More than that. It was a beautiful place but sad.”

“It’s gotten worse,” he said. “Hurtado and his handpicked ministers siphon off all the aid money. Anybody who objects gets tossed in jail. The rebels claim to be representing the people, but they’re nearly as corrupt as the dictator. The level of violence is brutal.”

“Why were you sent there?” she said.

“The ambassador requested a squad of marines to protect the embassy, but we didn’t stay there for long. Hurtado was hosting a bunch of companies that wanted to invest in Tiquanna. These top executives stayed with Hurtado. Pretty soon, that’s where we were stationed. Our job was to add a layer of protection for American VIPs.”

“What happened when you were taken?”

“An explosive device tore a hole in the wall surrounding the presidential compound.”

“Presidential,” she said. “Hurtado became president?”

“A couple of years ago. Sham elections.”

Though she knew better than to get worked up about political fakery, she was disgusted. “Let me guess. He’s president for life.”

“The rebels are making noises about calling for a new election. Each time an opposing candidate steps forward, he’s charged with a crime and ends up in prison.”

She suppressed a shudder. “Let’s get back to you. After they blew a hole in the wall, what happened?”

“A couple of my guys were injured. I went to help them. It was night. Smoke from the explosion streaked the air and stung my eyes. I put on my infrared goggles. In the street beyond the wall, I saw flashes of gunfire. I wanted to shoot back, but the rebels weren’t alone.”

“Who was there?”

“Civilians. I saw women and kids running from house to house, trying to get away. There was no way I could open fire.”

Her heart ached for him. She’d always known his profession, had always been aware of the risks in the military and the hard decisions he had to make. And she had to believe that his sacrifices fulfilled an important purpose.

“After that,” he said, “I don’t know what happened. My mind went blank. When I woke up, I was in a thatched hut.”

“Were you injured?”

“I’ve got a couple of scars I can show you.” He stepped away from the window and went to the overstuffed chair, where he sat, leaning back with his long legs stretched out in front of him. “I was moved from place to place, sometimes in a house and other times in the forests.”

“Was it the rebels?”

“I don’t know.” He hesitated for a long moment. “Who else would bomb Hurtado’s palace?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Like I said, I don’t remember. I was a hostage for six or seven weeks before I started making sense of things. There was an old man with a grizzled beard who gave me food and played chess with me. His name was Estaban. He told me that I got beat up pretty badly and almost died.”

Her heart clenched. “Oh, Nick...”

“Stop,” he said. “It’s over. It’s done, and I survived. Probably the worst thing that happened was a stomach infection, probably from drinking the water.”

Peering across the unlit room, she tried to see his eyes. She wanted to hold him and comfort him, but she knew he’d reject anything that smacked of pity. “I noticed you have a small limp.”

“I tried to escape, took off running through the forest. Do you remember those forests?”

“Incredible.” Her mind traveled back to a hike through Tiquanna where she saw intensely green foliage at the edge of the rain forest. The reds and blues were so brilliant that they seemed to vibrate. The birds and animals were remarkable. “Did you see any of the poison dart frogs?”

“Some.”

Those tiny jewel-toned creatures actually were toxic enough to kill. She had heard their venom was used in torture. “What happened in your escape attempt?”

“Long story short, I tripped over a tree root and got a sprained ankle. It’s still not completely healed.”

She heard detachment in his voice, as though he was reciting a story about some other hostage. It was going to take time for him to open up. “Nick, I want you to know—”

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