Beyond Redemption (8 page)
She spun to face him, zipping her shorts. “We will never be together. Not in the way you mean. Not ever again, and if you had a heart, you’d respect that and leave me alone.”
His face softened, and she looked away, unable to bear the stark vulnerability. “It’s because of my heart I can’t leave you alone, querida.”
“Don’t.” She stuffed her bra in her day pack and jerked her shirt on over her head. “I am not your darling. I will never be your darling. You are anathema, Acosta. The opposite of everything I’m about as a physician. ‘First do no harm,’ remember?” She jammed the tails of her shirt into her waistband. “And all you and you cartel friends and your rebel scum do is harm. You have to leave me alone, Mitch. Please…just let me go.”
“How am I supposed to do that, Angel? How can I let you go when I love you?”
Angelique glared at him. “Yeah? Well, I don’t love you.” His face contorted in pain, but she stiffened with resolve. She reached down, grabbed the small cooler, slung her pack over her shoulder, and walked out of the jungle as if there was a door she could close behind her. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever used her tears against her again.
* * * *
Back at the hospital, Angelique returned the unused drugs to the locked medicine cabinet and hit the showers. Sweaty and smelling like sex, she scrubbed until she was pink, anxious to wash away Acosta’s scent. There was a stack of mail waiting for her, and she took it back to her quarters, grateful for the distraction. She opened the large care package from her parents and rummaged for the one delicacy she could always depend on—Tante Lissett’s homemade pralines. She popped one of the tasty treats into her mouth.
Angelique’s family had vehemently protested her decision to travel to South America with the Healing Hands relief organization, but they kept up the appearance of harmony by sending her regular care packages. Her mother had even adopted Helping Hands as her newest charitable cause. A real philanthropist, her mother. Of course, her father viewed her as a huge disappointment, but Angelique loved what she was doing. She was making a difference, one patient at a time, which was why she’d become a doctor in the first place. The anonymity of her position was an added bonus, allowing her to live a life beyond the constraints of her hoity-toity Southern belle upbringing.
“Thank you, Auntie Liss.” She sighed as the delicate sweetness tantalized her taste buds. It was a unique flavor of home, and she looked forward to it almost as much as the requisite supply of batteries, toilet paper, insect repellent, toiletries, bottled water, and—bless them—the gift basket from Café Du Monde.
There were letters from friends. Well-to-do Southern women still wrote letters, and she would savor the gossip from home when she returned to the privacy of her tiny shack after sharing the contents of her care package. Right now, an ornately addressed envelope captured her attention. She grinned. Marina and Emilio Ramírez must be heading to their estate in Rio for Carnival. Of all the people who knew her, Marina knew her the best. Their families had been friends for more years than Angelique could remember. Marina was the first proper Southern girl of Angelique’s social circle who had possessed the guts to defy her parents and marry outside her class and, as such, was a personal hero. Every time they flew to Brazil for Carnival, they sent her an invitation to come and visit, which she always tried to do. She hadn’t seen them since returning from Africa, and heaven knew she could use a little downtime from her work here. Little luxuries were rare in the refugee camps, and Angelique made an effort to take them wherever she found them.
She tore open the letter, already preparing the RSVP in her mind.
Darling Angelique, it pains me to tell you that my beloved sister has passed. She suffered a massive coronary last week. She was a driven woman, always working, never allowing herself a moment’s pleasure. Sound familiar?
I know your stress level, darling Angelique, and I urge you to take some time away. Come to Carnival with us. Indulge yourself.
Why shouldn’t she go? She had more accrued leave than any doctor with the organization, and she’d be safer with Marina, even in the middle of Carnival, than she was here amid rebel thugs and mercenaries. It would give her some much-needed time away from Acosta and his merry men. She pulled her date book out of her rickety night table and flipped to the appropriate day. It was a little short notice, but the new guy was plenty capable. All she had to do was take him on weekly rounds with her to make sure her elderly patients were seen. One of the good things about the Helping Hands organization was its ability to be flexible. They valued their doctors and were more than accommodating when one of them needed a little R&R. And a trip to Rio would certainly be a stress reducer.
She gathered up a box of beignet mix, tucked the invitation under her arm, and headed for the kitchen. She would make a batch of beignets for the camp, then use Dr. Shepherd’s office phone to call the estate in Rio. The houseman would have the information she needed.
While everyone ate their fill of the delicate, airy doughnuts, Angelique eased into Dr. Shepherd’s ancient office chair and turned on the phone. She got a signal on the first try, a minor miracle in these climes, and dialed the number by heart. The phone rang, and a man with a thick Spanish accent answered.
“Hola, Hector,” Angelique greeted the houseman. “This is Angelique Vernet.”
“Hola, Doctor, what may I do to assist you?”
“Would you let Marina and Emilio know I am looking forward to seeing them? You know how unreliable our phone service can be up here. I’ll try and e-mail Marina, but one never knows what will get through.”
“Ah indeed, I was told to expect your call. You are still in Manos de Ayuda?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Ramírez asks me to tell you that a helicopter will pick you up two days before Carnival and fly you to Rio. They will meet you at the estate. There will be a few guests, but the atmosphere will be very casual. Are these instructions clear?”
“Crystal. I look forward to seeing you again.”
“As do I.”
Angelique hung up the phone and continued to stare at it for a moment. She was committed now, so she fired up the old computer, logged on to the Internet, and opened her e-mail account:
From:[email protected]
My Dearest Marina,
My deepest condolences on the loss of your sister. She was one of a kind, and she will be missed. How I wish I was there with you to help you through this time. I’ll plan for an extra few days off so we can visit while you’re in Brazil.
Regards to your rascally husband, and I look forward to seeing you soon…Ange.
Her plans set, she put aside thoughts of a minivacation. Today, like every Saturday, was softball day. The field where they played was close to the village square. As soon as the children saw the hospital staffers coming down the hill, they raced to meet them, anxious to help carry the equipment. Dr. Shepherd chased after a ten-year-old who thought it great fun to pick up the bases and move them around the field. Shepherd was laughing, the stress lines in his face miraculously smoothing out as he indulged in this weekly game of tag with the young boy. Acosta was there behind the catcher to officiate the game.
Two preteen girls took Angelique’s hands and tugged her to the ground so they could braid her hair. The children were fascinated with the wheat-colored strands, oohing and aahing over the platinum highlights that usually only appeared in summer, combing it with great care as they exclaimed about its softness. While the older girls braided her hair, Angelique made sure she did the same for any of the younger girls who wanted braids, making a big fuss over how shiny and beautiful she found their hair. It was their weekly meeting of the mutual admiration society. When they were done, she went through her warm-up routine, jogging in place, then stretching vital muscles before throwing some practice pitches with Shepherd.
“Come on, Vernet!” Able shouted, bouncing on her toes. “Get your butt to the pitcher’s mound.”
Angelique laughed. “That anxious to get your ass handed to you, Able?”
The smack talk continued as she jogged to the pitcher’s mound and stepped onto it from the backside. She took a balanced stance, positioning her feet just so, then relaxed her arms at her sides, shaking out the tension. Her starting pitch always utilized the four-seam grip. She kept the ball-glove touch below her waist and moved right into the backswing, leaned forward, and pushed off into a long stride, wrist back, arm outstretched, shoulders back. The ball snapped on release and hurtled toward the batter, crossing home plate. Able never even got a piece of it.
“Steee-rike one!” Acosta shouted the call as Angelique did a little happy dance for Able’s benefit. The elfin nurse gave her the middle finger salute and laughed.
It didn’t take long for the opposing team to strike out, and sooner than she would have liked, Angelique was at bat. She sucked at hitting, and everybody knew it. Still, she stepped up to the plate.
“Woo-hoo, batter, batter, batter!” Able. “Try and hit it in the right direction this time, Vernet.”
Angelique stuck her tongue out at the petite nurse. “That’s mighty big talk for a hobbit,” she said, pointing toward the outfield with her bat. Right. Like she’d ever hit a ball that far that hadn’t been caught. Still, she took the stance Shepherd had taught her and swung with all her might when the ball crossed the plate.
“Foul ball! Nice try, Angel.”
Angelique looked at Acosta and bared her teeth. “That sucked, and we both know it.” Three strikes and she was out. She stomped away from the plate in disgust, only to be waylaid by Seth Boudreaux.
“Come on, beb, let’s keep that pitchin’ arm limber.”
She ignored the blush she felt staining her cheeks and shrugged. “Sure,” she said and trotted off behind him, a safe distance from the game.
“Okay, cher. Show me what you got. Lemme see your fastball.” She fired one in and laughed when he shouted, “Hot damn, girl. You got some arm on you.”
She practiced her favorite pitch, the rise ball, then gave him another fast one, followed by a screwball, then called a time-out to work with some of the little kids who wanted to learn to pitch. But she was aware of Acosta watching her, and every time she looked over at him, he gave her a wicked wink. Oh Lord, the promise in his eyes made her blood run hot.
Halfway through the next inning, as Angelique struck out her second batter, Shepherd’s walkie-talkie squawked. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the game was over. Shepherd pointed at her. “You and Able, scrub in.”
“Toss your gear over here, guys,” Acosta said. “Seth and I will hump it back up the hill before we head out.”
* * * *
There were two serious cases waiting for them when they arrived. One, a femoral compound fracture caused from a fall from a height; the other a woman who had been severely beaten. Shepherd and Able did their best to stabilize the leg while Angelique focused on treating the patient’s other injuries. In addition to the femoral fracture, the young man had a fractured cheekbone disrupting the orbit and causing the eye to sink.
“We’re gonna need medevac to Quito, Shep,” Angelique told the chief surgeon. “He’s gonna need screws and plates to fix this fracture, and neither of us are plastic surgeons. Hell, you’ve got me doing more surgery than I did on my surgical rotation.”
Shepherd acknowledged her with a grunt. “Let’s get him into recovery and treat the woman; then we’ll make arrangements.” He glanced over at Carla. “Get her prepped while I close, Able, and we’ll see what we can learn from her injuries.”
What they learned was how blunt force trauma, the result of severe domestic violence, can tear the spleen, producing a veritable lake of internal bleeding, as well as a miscarriage. The patient couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. Dr. Shepherd did an admirable job of repairing the damage; however, the woman’s condition remained critical.
Angelique tossed her gloves in the biohazard container and pushed through the door to the surgical waiting area. “Where is the husband of Amelita García?” she asked in Spanish.
An old woman frowned and spat on the dirt floor. “In la cantina, Doctor. Where he always is if one is available. My daughter?”
“In recovery. Dr. Shepherd will be out in a moment to talk to you.” A little boy hid behind the woman’s skirt, clutching a baseball bat. Angelique squatted down and smiled at the child. “May I see your bat,
pequeño
?” The boy held it out to her, and as she expected, there was blood on it.
Angelique’s mouth tightened as she shoved the door open and stalked toward the cantina. Beat a helpless woman with a bat, would he?
* * * *
Acosta looked up as Angelique stormed into the cantina wearing blood-spattered scrubs. The light of vengeance lit her eyes, and he hoped like hell it wasn’t him she was coming after with that damned baseball bat.
“Which of you is the husband of Amelita García?” Angelique shouted.
Acosta’s eyes widened with dismay.
Oh shit, Angel, don’t do that.
A small, wiry man slid off a bar stool. “I am, Doctor. She will be all right?”
“That depends on what you mean by all right. She may live; she may not.” Angelique snarled as she swung the bat, hitting the man just below his rib cage, using just enough force to make an impression but not cause any real damage. Well, maybe a cracked rib. “You like beating women, amigo?” She took another swing at him, the bat connecting with his thigh. The man crumpled to the dirt floor. “She was pregnant, you asshole! Did you know and beat her anyway? Is that why you did it?”
Acosta leaped to his feet and crossed the room in an instant. He had to stop her before she killed the bastard, even if the scumbag deserved what she was giving him. Benito García was connected. His death would demand retribution. He reached out and caught the bat in midswing.
