The jangling phone broke their silence. With a sigh of disappointment and a tender good-bye kiss, she rolled off of him and curled into his side. He finally picked up on the fifth ring.
“Yeah?” Dane didn’t try to hide the impatience in his voice.
“Morning, Erikson.”
He sighed. “Roper. What is it?”
“Gee, I hate to interrupt what I’m sure is a most cozy scene, but I gotta tell you something.”
“Now what?” When would he be done with this guy?
“After watching your performance last night, illegal and outside of procedural boundaries as it might have been, I made a few calls to some buddies in Grenada.”
The flame of hope sparked. “And?” He caught Ava’s glance and held it while he listened.
“Just a little payback for your help, even though you did not follow orders.”
“I follow instinct, Roper.” Dane eased the sheet off Ava’s naked body.
“Right. Anyway, I asked them to start a search for a man—dead or alive—who may have been reported as shot the night of the hurricane.”
So Roper had a little heart beating in his tough-guy chest, after all.
“Thanks. We’re going down to the island this morning.” He watched Ava’s eyes as she realized he was talking about Grenada and Marco. He followed a trail with his fingers, up her arm, over the rise of her little bicep, across the curves of her throat and down the intoxicating valley between her breasts. The diversion didn’t pull his attention from Roper’s words, however.
“Go straight to the police,” the agent instructed. “We’ve pretty much ruled your friend out as part of Arnot’s ring, and they agreed to spend the morning doing some research with the morgues and checking records. You know it was like hell down there, but maybe, just maybe, a smart doctor took the time to report a gunshot victim. At least this’ll grease the skids for you.” As Roper gave him the name of a contact, Dane’s sense of hope began to intensify. A chance. There had to be a chance.
“I really appreciate this, Max,” Dane said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
He got a grunt in return. “Sure. And take care of that little girl you got, Erikson.”
“I’m trying, pal.”
Roper chuckled a little. “You better. Bet it’s not too often you manage to find somebody prettier than you are.” Roper was still laughing when Dane hung up.
Ava had pulled the sheet back up to her neck, ready for an explanation. He kept the optimism out of his voice when he told her the reason for Roper’s call. She started to ask a million questions, so he put his hand on her mouth and tried to distract her.
“Stop talking. We have a starting place, that’s all. Now, if you will relinquish the keys to the car you so boldly helped yourself to, I can arrange to have it picked up. Then we can pack and take a trip to the Island of Spice.”
She leaped from the bed, her delicious figure disappearing from sight. He got up and opened the shutters to check the skies for their flight. When she came back into the room, she wore the white robe and dangled the key in front of him.
“Testarosa.” She let the Italian word tumble out slowly with a perfect accent. “Know what that means?”
He snapped the key out of her hand. “Give that to me.”
She put her hands on her hips and shot him a haughty glare. “It’s not very practical, you know.”
He tugged at her bathrobe tie and hungrily eyed her exposed body. “Neither are you.” Still holding the ties, he pulled her toward him. “Come on, let’s take a shower. Before I turn you into breakfast.”
As he bent to kiss her, she leaned back, a tiny frown etched between her eyebrows. “I…I really want to get to Grenada, Dane. I need to know. I need to find out.”
He closed his eyes in silent agreement. They both knew the day ahead of them would be far less pleasant than the night they’d left behind.
“We’ll find out together, baby.” He wrapped both arms around her and held her close to him. “It’ll be easier that way.”
17
D ane rarely broke their physical contact. He held Ava’s hand across the aisle of the Piper Apache during the flight to Grenada. He kept his arm around her while they purchased a local driving permit and rented a Moke in the closest town, Grenville. He let his fingers rest on her thigh as they negotiated a mountain pass that took them right through the crater of an extinct volcano. With no apology and no apparent motivation, he just touched. It had a dizzying effect.
She dropped her head back on the seat, holding the seat belt with one hand and covering his strong, possessive fingers with the other. From behind her sunglasses, she stole a long look at him as the Moke bounced along the Grand Etang Road. It had no roof, just a roll bar and windshield, allowing the rays of sunshine that broke through the lush foliage to highlight the captivating angles of his face and the corded muscles of his tanned arms. He made her weak.
She steadied herself with a deep breath. “Now I know why they call it the Island of Spice. Nutmeg and cloves and cinnamon.”
“There are spice factories and perfume distilleries everywhere here,” he told her. “And over that hill there’s a trail that takes you to two unbelievable waterfalls…”
She let him ramble like a tour guide, appreciating his effort to keep her mind off their mission, but it didn’t erase the hope she hung on to as they made their way toward St. George’s.
“Do you think he’s in jail?” she blurted out, interrupting his description of his favorite beach.
“No,” he responded without missing a beat.
“But you hear stories about foreigners getting thrown in jail and never being heard from again.”
He shook his head. “Not here. In Turkey and Afghanistan, maybe. Not in Grenada.”
“Roper said Arnot was working for Colombians. Do you think they kidnapped him?”
“I doubt it.” He slowed down around a tight curve, taking his hand off her only for the moment he needed to downshift.
“Do you think he’s just hiding? Maybe he thinks he’d get blamed for the explosion and—”
Dane shot her an incredulous glance. “Not a chance, Ava.” He squeezed her leg. “Stop theorizing. We’ll be there soon. Enjoy the scenery because it’s going to disappear as we get farther south.”
She continued with a silent exploration of possibilities, all ending with Marco alive and well and happy to see them. But those hopes diminished with each mile, as the deadly damage from Hurricane Carlos obliterated all beauty and life. If he really had been shot and left in the street, he couldn’t have survived. He couldn’t have.
They parked among the rubble of the old town square. From there, they walked through a long underground tunnel to the opposite end of town and climbed up a short, steep hill to the historic stone structure that housed the new police headquarters. The previous one had apparently been wiped out with the storm.
Within moments they had an audience with Captain Thomas Burke, an imposing black man whose lilting English accent was peppered with the island dialect. With a wide white smile, he assured them that Max Roper had requested he do everything possible to help the couple on their quest.
“However, Mr. Erikson, I don’t think there’s much we can do,” Captain Burke said softly after they took seats in his office. “We are still in a crisis situation here and not as organized as we used to be.”
Dane nodded. “Do you have any reports of gunshot victims on file?”
“We had a few.” The captain opened a file folder and slid the metal bracket to release some papers. “This is what I’ve found.”
Ava leaned forward expectantly, wanting to seize the papers for herself, but Dane stayed still, waiting for Burke. She took his cue and clasped her hands together.
Burke read from the paper. “A domestic dispute. Wife shot the husband a few hours before the storm hit.” He scanned down the page. “A barroom brawl in St. George’s. A tourist attacked the owner because they were closing for the storm
. Then one of the patrons shot the guy, wounded him.”
Dane and Ava shared a glance as her mind spun a new scenario. Could that have been Marco? Could the “patron” have been Jacques? “What happened to him? The tourist who got shot? What was his name?” her questions tumbled out.
“Hold on there, miss.” Captain Burke held up his hand to quiet her and study the page in front of him. “Just a second. Gave him a John Doe for some reason and a number. He was treated at St. George’s General, but moved after the storm. He may have been sent to a jail in Grenville.”
Ava looked sharply at Dane and raised an I-told-you-so eyebrow.
“I’m sorry we can’t be more certain.” Captain Burke furrowed his brow as he reviewed the page. “We haven’t had phone service, let alone working computers, the last few weeks.”
Dane reached over and took her hand.
“We have two more in the file,” Captain Burke continued. “Both apparent victims of muggings who ended up in the temporary hospitals after the storm. Both gunshot wounds.” At his matter-of-fact tone, Ava started to gnaw her lip. “One is dead and buried, but we had a positive id on him. The other was a John Doe shot in the head and sent to Fort Frederick.”
“I’ve been to Frederick,” Dane said. “He’s not there. There were no gunshot victims there.”
“Well, this John Doe may have been moved. He was not conscious,” Burke said as he set the paper on his desk. “That’s it, I’m afraid.”
Ava stared at the captain, willing him to say more, waiting for any other idea or suggestion.
He simply shook his head. “You can try the guy up in Grenville, he might still be in custody. Or you can go back to Fort Frederick to see what happened to that John Doe. Where they buried him.”
“Or moved him,” Dane said hopefully.
The captain smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry we couldn’t help you any more. Max is a good man and God knows I owe him a favor, after the cleanup job his men did in Sauteurs. But, other than what I’ve told you, we’ve had no reports that would fit the situation he described.”
The dazzling sun clashed with their mood as they left the police headquarters. They found shade next to the building to plan their next move.
“The nurse at Fort Frederick said she didn’t remember any gunshot victims,” Dane told her. “But she did say to try Fort Matthew. She said the worst cases went there. Let’s go there first.”
“What about the guy in jail in Grenville?”
Dane put his hand on her back to guide her down the stone steps. “Marco wouldn’t attack a bar owner.”
“You don’t know what happened that night, Dane. But it would make sense if he’s stuck in a jail and he can’t reach us,” she insisted. “Maybe he didn’t attack the guy. Maybe he was begging to use the phone or something and they got into a fight. Maybe…” A miserable lump formed in her throat, a black cloud of despair starting to descend over her.
“Let’s go, princess.” He nudged her forward, his voice tender but determined. “We’ll look in every jail cell in Grenada if you want. But Fort Matthew is a mile up the hill, so let’s just see what we can find here before we go all the way back to Grenville.”
“The captain said that guy was shot in the head,” Ava said softly, unwilling to go down the steps as all embers of hope started to cool. “And you said Jacques shot him in the leg. You’ve been to Fort Frederick, where the captain said he was sent. It’s a waste of time.”
“Come on. We don’t know unless we look.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, making Dane’s face blur. “This is useless, Dane. We’re never going to find him…or his body.”
He said nothing for a moment. She was sure he’d just fold her in his arms any second so that she could cry hard into his shoulder and let herself lose hope.
She saw the square bone of his jaw set firmly as his gaze turned to dark blue steel. “You’re not giving up, are you?”
She blinked, clearing the tears. He stepped back and grabbed both her hands.
“You want to quit, Ava Santori? Just give up, go home, and wonder for the rest of your life if you searched every corner?”
He hit his intended target with his direct words and sharp tone. Straight aim for her heart. It occurred to her, as she stood blinded by the midday sun and his impossibly handsome face, that Dane understood her better than anyone she’d ever met.
She jerked her hands away to wipe the dampness from her eyes while she continued to stare at him, to consider the challenge and the man who made it.
“I am not a quitter,” she finally whispered.
“No. You are not.” He curved his lips just enough to take the sting out and reached for her hand. “You’re my woman of action.”
The muscles in her thighs burned as they climbed the hill, and the tendrils that had fallen out of her hastily tied ponytail curled around her neck in the humidity. A steady trickle of sweat ran down the small of her back. But the ever-present touch of Dane Erikson propelled her up to where the white stone arms of the fort reached out for them.
He found the triage center and spoke in hushed tones to an elderly nurse who listened, nodding and sympathetic.
“Well, sweetie, I’m still new here,” she explained with a distinct Carolina drawl and a generous smile. “Just shipped over last week. Let me find one of the other girls who might be able to help y’all.”
The wait was interminable. Dane bought them bottled water at a gift shop. Ava prayed to every saint she knew. Anthony, for lost treasures. Jude, for lost causes. Joseph, for lost families. Anyone who would listen to the pleas of a bereaved sister searching for her lost brother.
Marco Polo, Marco Polo. She could hear her own little-girl voice as she played hide-and-seek under empty tables in the restaurant. Entertaining her baby brother after school, a favor to Mama while they prepped for the evening rush. Where are you, Marco Polo? She could smell the fresh basil and hear Dominic’s demands when the kitchen door would swing open. Then she’d find him, a giggle spilling from his dimpled face, all wild wavy hair and chubby little toddler legs. I found you, Marco Polo. He’d been her living, breathing baby doll.
“Hey.” His soft touch on her cheek, wiping a tear she didn’t know was there, pulled her from the memory.
Just then, a tall, bald man in turquoise scrubs came through the triage doors carrying a clipboard.
“I’m Doctor Graham Whitaker.” He spoke with an elegant British accent, cultured and cool. “I understand you’re looking for a gunshot victim.”
Dane shook the doctor’s outstretched hand and offered a terse explanation. Dr. Whitaker listened intently, his gaze shifting to Ava repeatedly as Dane spoke.
“I had someone with a gunshot wound in the thigh,” he said with a slight frown. “Came from the hospital, then ended up in jail up in Grenville, I believe.”
Dane nodded. “We’ll be tracking that lead also.”
The doctor shook his head in thought. “Are you sure he was shot in the leg?”
“We’re not really sure of anything,” Dane admitted.
“Because…” He looked hard at Ava again. “I did have one young man who…was he related to you?”
Ava’s heart jumped, and she gasped at the pointed question. “Yes. My brother.”
The doctor nodded vigorously. “I treated a man several weeks ago. A bullet had apparently grazed his head, left side. Comatose with a possible herniation to the brain. Without an MRI, we had no way of knowing if the coma was caused by swelling or where the affected areas were. He never woke up.”
Ava knew she was squeezing Dane’s hand hard, but couldn’t stop.
“Is he…is he here?” she asked anxiously.
“No, he’s long gone.”
A tiny moan of disappointment escaped her lips.
“Is he dead?” Dane asked.
“I have no idea. I move between the two ICUs and don’t necessarily follow every patient. I do remember he nearly flatlined twice, but recovered. And a man
of his size would need a stomach tube after several weeks. We gave him steroids to reduce subdural swelling and I ordered an MRI, but of course, we’ve had no access to equipment like that since the storm. If the bleeding was around the brain stem, he couldn’t have survived. If not”—he shrugged—“hard to say. If he lived, he would have been sent to another island, I imagine.”
“How do we find out?” Dane asked.
He aimed his clipboard toward the triage center. “With luck, someone kept a record. Come with me.”
As they entered the tiny office, Dane and Ava shared a hopeful glance.
“Did you see how he looked at me?” she whispered. “He asked if we were related. It must be Marco.”
Dane nodded and Ava could see him swallow hard, no doubt fighting his own rising hope.
Dr. Whitaker disappeared into a back room and Ava counted the rhythmic clumping of her heart. Where are you, Marco Polo?
“This has to be him,” she insisted, to herself as much as to Dane. “This patient. It has to be Marco.”
Dane ran a calming thumb over her knuckles. “We’ll see, baby.”
Finally, the doctor emerged with the first nurse they’d spoken to at his side.
“He was airlifted to Trinidad,” he said with finality. “He stabilized enough to be transported along with several other patients about three weeks ago. To either the Port-of-Spain General Hospital in Trinidad or, if that was full, they would have taken him to Scarborough Hospital in Tobago.”
Ava started to pull Dane toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” The nurse held up a small bag. “This was left in his file. He must have been wearing it or carrying it when he was brought in.”
She handed the white plastic bag to Dane. Reaching inside, he froze, his eyes widening, then squeezing shut as though he’d been punched. Slowly, he pulled out a long metal chain. At the end dangled a glistening silver compass, a single word embedded into the face. Utopia.