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“There’ve been two in the last few days. First Letty Leonard. Now Helen’s fetus. Knowing that a small, helpless, innocent life was needlessly lost…” She shrugged eloquently. “It still affects me. Deeply.” She sipped from her coffee mug, which felt very heavy in her trembling hand. The brandy had been a good idea. It warmed and soothed all the way down.
“Tell me about her.”
“Who, Ashley?”
“Pretty name.”
“She was pretty.” She laughed softly, with embarrassment. “Every mother thinks that about her child, I know, but Ashley was pretty. From the day she was born. Blond and blue-eyed, cherubic-looking. She had a perfectly round face and rosy cheeks. Truly a beautiful child. And she was a good baby. Content. She didn’t cry much, even during the early months. She had an unusually happy disposition. Her smile was like sunshine. Even strangers commented on it. She… beamed. Yes, beamed,” she said reflectively.
“She seemed destined to make everyone around her smile, to light up a room when she walked in. She certainly lit up my life.” Her coffee was growing cold. She folded her hands around the mug in a vain attempt to retain the warmth.
“Until she was born, I was desperately unhappy. Randall’s job required all his time and concentration. Montesangre is a hideous place. I loathe it. All of it. The climate, the land, the people. Living there in banishment was the bleakest period of my life. Or so I thought at the time. I didn’t learn what real despair is until I lost my child.”
She paused for a moment to stave off another smothering attack of bereavement. She swallowed with difficulty and briefly mashed her fist against her lips. When she felt it was safe to speak, she cleared her throat again and continued.
“Ashley made even that horrid place bearable. When I nursed her, it was as nurturing to me as it was to her. For weeks after I weaned her, my breasts ached.” She covered her breasts with her hands, feeling once again the pain of disuse and remorse. Then, remembering herself, she lowered her hands and glanced at Key. He sat unmoving, watching and listening. “And then she died.”
“She didn’t die. She was killed.”
She sipped her coffee, but it was cold now so she pushed the mug aside. “That’s right. There is a distinction, isn’t there?”
“Definitely.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “What do you need, a play-by-play account?”
“No,” he answered quietly. “I think that’s what you need.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go to hell, but the words died unspoken. She didn’t have enough energy for defiance. Moreover, perhaps he was right. Perhaps she did need to talk about it.
“We were on our way to a party,” she began. “A wealthy local businessman was throwing a birthday bash for one of his seven children. I didn’t particularly want to go. I knew it would be an ostentatious affair. The way in which the wealthy Montesangrens flaunted their wealth made you almost sympathize with the rebels. Anyway, Randall insisted that we attend the party because the host was an influential man.
“I dressed Ashley in a new dress. Yellow. Her color. I put a yellow bow in her hair, on the top of her head where her curls were the thickest.” She touched her own hair to demonstrate.
“Randall had arranged for someone on the embassy staff to drive us, thinking it would be more impressive if we arrived with a chauffeur. He was sitting in the front seat with the driver. Ashley and I were in the back. We were playing patty-cake. The car approached a busy intersection. Ashley was laughing, squealing. She was happy.”
Lara couldn’t go on. Resting her head in her palm, she pinched her burning eyes shut. After a moment, she forced herself to continue.
“The driver stopped for the traffic light. Suddenly, the car was surrounded by armed, masked guerrillas. I didn’t realize this at the time. It all happened too fast. I didn’t know anything was wrong until the driver fell forward against the steering wheel. He’d been shot through the head at close range. The second bullet shattered the front windshield. It struck Randall.
“The third bullet was intended for him too, but he had slumped to one side. Ashley was hit instead. Here.” She touched the side of her neck. “Her blood splattered over my face and chest. I screamed and fell across her to protect her. That’s when I was shot, in the back of my shoulder. I didn’t even feel it.”
She paused and sat staring into space. It was an effort to continue, but she knew that healing processes were customarily painful.
“Bystanders started screaming. People left their cars idling and scattered in every direction, seeking cover. They were safe. It was us the rebels were after. Three of them opened the passenger door and grabbed Randall. He shouted in pain and outrage. I believe one of the gunmen struck him in the temple with the butt of his pistol. Randall lost consciousness before they carried him to their waiting truck. I read all this later in the newspaper, after they had executed him. I knew nothing at the time of the kidnapping. All I knew was that my baby was dying.
“I knew it, but I couldn’t accept it,” she continued hoarsely. “I was screaming. I couldn’t stop the bleeding. I pushed my finger into the bullet hole in her neck to try to stop it. The authorities arrived within minutes of the attack, but I was hysterical. They had to prize Ashley away from me. They dragged me to an ambulance. I don’t remember anything after that. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was in a hospital in Miami.”
She didn’t realize that tears were rolling down her face until one ran into the corner of her lips. She licked it away. “The ambush on our car marked the official beginning of the revolution. The rebels attacked the birthday party, too. It was a bloodbath. Only a few survivors lived to tell about it. No doubt we would have been killed there. I don’t know why they chose to ambush us en route.
“Because of what happened to Randall, the United States closed the embassy in Montesangre—what was left of it after it was ransacked—and abruptly discontinued diplomatic relations with their new government.
“Following his execution, the revolutionaries returned Randall’s body to the States. It was more a gesture of contempt than largess, because they also sent gory photographs of the firing squad to the secretary of state. They didn’t send back Ashley’s remains, nor any pictures of her body or coffin. No death certifica
te. Nothing. They ignored all Washington’s demands for either more information or the release of her body. After a while, Washington lost interest and stopped demanding. I’ve continued to badger them, but as far as our government is concerned, the matter is closed.
“Oh, God.” She covered her face with her hands. “My baby is still down there. I never got to touch her. Never got to see her face one last time. Never got to kiss her good-bye. She’s somewhere down there in that wretched place. That—”
“Don’t, Lara.” He was there in an instant, standing beside her chair, smoothing back her hair. “You’re right. It’s a goddamn nightmare, but for Ashley it was over in a heartbeat. She didn’t suffer any fear or pain.”
