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She gazed back into his eyes, realizing that no one had thanked him for all the necessary details he had attended to. He had taken on the unwelcome tasks without having even been asked to. "You've been a tremendous help through all this, Cage. With your parents. With me." She laid her hand on his arm. "I'm glad we have you."
"I'm glad you have me, too," he said with a soft smile.
He'd been right not to tell her he had been her lover that night. The old selfish Cage wouldn't have let his brother take the credit for the joy he had given Jenny that night. But this new changed Cage would continue letting her think she had been with Hal to spare her from having to heap shame onto tragedy.
* * *
The capital city of Monterico was noisy, nasty, and hot.
Concrete-and-steel skeletons were grim reminders that buildings had once stood where now there was only ruin. Piles of rubble made some streets impassable. Political slogans, painted on in blood red, screamed the grisly story of civil war from every available billboard.
Soldiers, wearing fatigue pants and combat boots and tank tops, patrolled the streets. Their expressions were surly, their attitude arrogant and rude. The civilian population was cowed, their eyes watchful and afraid, their movements furtive, as they went about their workday activities.
Jenny had never seen such a depressing place. She began to feel an empathy with Hal's cause and to experience some of his determination to correct this wrong and put an end to this suppression of the human spirit.
Whithers, the State Department official who had met them in Mexico City, was a disappointment. Jenny had expected a Gregory Peck type whose very carriage proclaimed authority and commanded obedience. Mr. Whithers looked like he couldn't withstand a strong wind, much less adversity from a government hostile to the United States. He looked far from authoritarian and commanding in his wrinkled seersucker suit. She could visualize him being the butt of cruel jests, rather than posing any threat to a military junta.
But he had been kind and sensitive to their grief as he walked Cage and her through the crowded airport to the plane that would carry them to Monterico. He had treated her with deference.
Jenny let Cage do most of the talking. But while he took official matters into his own hands, he never let his attention slip from her. She was never far from him; he was constantly at her side, usually with a protective arm around her shoulders or a tender hand beneath her elbow.
She drew on his strength, relied on it without apology. Lord, what would she do without it? She wondered why people didn't credit Cage with having any sensitivity.
"Cage Hendren doesn't give a damn about anybody or anything." That was how people saw him.
But they were wrong. He cared a great deal. About his brother. And he couldn't have been kinder to her.
Upon their arrival in Monterico, Jenny, Cage, and Mr. Whithers had been packed into the backseat of an aging Ford. In the front seat were a driver and a soldier with a Soviet AK-47 tucked beneath his arm. Every time Jenny looked at the automatic weapon, shivers went down her spine.
The driver and his partner represented the government currently in control of the country. They made no effort to disguise their contempt for their passengers.
After a circuitous journey through the city, they were finally deposited in front of a building that had formally housed a bank. Now it served as government headquarters. A goat was tethered to one of the columns of the building's facade. He seemed as ill tempered and hostile as the other residents of Monterico.
Inside, overhead fans vainly tried to circulate the thick, stifling air. But at least the former bank lobby provided a repose from the scorching sun. Jenny's blouse was sticking to her back. Cage had long since taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
They were ungraciously shown a seat by a soldier who poked his rifle toward a dilapidated couch and grunted what they assumed was an order for them to sit down. Mr. Whithers was ushered in to confer with the military commander. He was agitatedly mopping his brow with a handkerchief when he left the office a few minutes later. "Washington will hear about this," he said indignantly.
"About what?" Cage demanded.
Standing with his feet spaced widely apart, his jacket slung over his shoulder by a crooked finger, his shirt open to reveal that breath-snatching chest, and virtually growling through clenched teeth, he looked more fearsome than any of the soldiers.
Mr. Whithers explained to them that Hal's body hadn't yet reached the city. "The village where the … uh…"
"Execution," Cage provided bluntly.
"Yes, well, the village where it took place is sealed off by guerrilla fighting. But they expect the body to be delivered by nightfall," he rushed to add reassuringly.
"Nightfall!" Jenny exclaimed. Spending one afternoon in this war-torn place was a dismal prospect.
"I'm afraid so, Miss Fletcher." Mr. Whithers cast a nervous glance toward Cage. "It might be sooner. No one seems to know for certain."
"What are we supposed to do in the meantime?" she asked.
He cleared his throat and swallowed. "Wait."
And they did. For endless hours that ticked by with monotonous sluggishness. They weren't allowed to leave the building. When Mr. Whithers used all his diplomatic power to get them food and drink, they were brought stale ham sandwiches and glasses of rusty tepid water.
"No doubt these are leftovers from the prison camps," Cage said and with scathing disgust tossed the offensive sandwich into the nearest overflowing trash can. Jenny couldn't eat hers either. The ham had a slightly greenish cast. But they drank the water out of fear of dehydration. They sweltered in the afternoon heat while the soldiers propped themselves and their rifles against the walls and took their siestas.
