Reverb
Eleven: Demonstrative
- x -
MacGyver's ears were still ringing with the shock of the crashing blasts, and bright sparks danced in front of his eyes. The world was upside down. That didn't seem too odd – after the explosions, if anything, it seemed only right – but the world wouldn't turn rightways up again.
Instead, it swayed. Something was swinging back and forth in front of his face, either above him or below him, depending on which way up was supposed to be. When he tried to lift a hand and move it out of the way, he realised the swinging thing was his hand.
And the moving things, not that far beyond it, were feet. Hurrying feet. He was slung over someone's shoulder, and the world was actually right ways up, but he wasn't. The world was apparently still in one piece, and he was too. Sort of. He hoped.
There had been an eye-searing vision of clouds of fire, blooming and billowing up from the explosions, but the blazes had ebbed away and left the night even darker than before. This early in the dry season, the jungle would not succumb to fire – the rains had paused, but the tangled trees and looping vines and choking undergrowth were soaked down every morning by the heavy fogs from the river.
There had been a foul smell of chemical smoke in the air, but the night air bore no trace of that now, only thick scents of leaf and earth, of growth and rot. The heavy wet smell of the river was thickest of all, with a faint trace of old paint and machine oil that grew suddenly stronger as the floorboards of an open boat jumped up and thwacked him – mercifully, on his right side, although the impact jarred him all over. Mac bit back a strangled cry of pain. Wherever he was, making a lot of noise was probably a lousy idea.
"Damn good thing you've gotten so skinny, amigo. You're no treat to carry." Xavier's voice above him, a murmur in the dark. Around him, close to his ear beyond the thin skin of the boat, the deep rushing voice of the river.
Mac's head was still throbbing with the thunderclaps of the explosions, and his agitated heartbeat hammered in his ears. An engine coughed to life and added its rattling thumps to the confusion. The noise of the river grew louder as the boat began to move and picked up speed. The steady splashes smoothed away the other sounds and washed over Mac, carrying away the heat and the chill and the throbbing pain. His heart steadied, backed off from the hammering that had been shaking him into dizziness. The thumping of the boat engine faded away into peaceful silence and a welcome darkness.
- x -
Running feet thumping out in the hotel corridor – Pete recognised Sam's tread even before the footsteps halted at the door of their suite. He rolled out of bed and found his bathrobe in the dark, and had wrapped it around himself and hurried out into the sitting room by the time Sam had opened the door, his key fumbling in the lock in his haste.
"What's up? What's going on? Did something go wrong tonight?" Sam had been out late again, playing mechanic and gathering gossip.
"Bush telegraph's gone crazy, Pete. Word's out all over town – big excitement downriver. The whole coca processing compound down around Puerto Pizano is gone."
"What?"
"Blown up!"
"When?"
"Earlier tonight, I guess." Sam shook his head. "I still can't get over how fast news spreads."
"They do have telephones here, Sam," Pete said. "Was it Sendero?"
"Nobody seems to know. Pete, the really funny thing – what's got everybody talking – is that there weren't any casualties. Whoever did it made all the people leave the compound, then boom, the whole thing blew at once."
"That doesn't sound like Shining Path at all." Pete felt a roaring in his ears, as if the Huallaga River outside their window had suddenly grown into a raucous cataract. "That sounds like your father!"
"I know!"
"Wait a moment – " Pete frowned. "Did you say Puerto Pizano?"
"Yeah. That means something to you?"
"It means plenty. It was in Urteaga's documents – that's the Rojas territory. It's just north of Tocache, where they found Valdivieso's body. Her husband bought into the plantation holdings there, and she's been expanding – didn't you say it was the processing compound?" Without waiting for an answer, Pete whirled and headed back to his bedroom. "We need to get out there – I'd have the helicopter take us out there, but I don't know if they can handle a landing in the dark . . . damn it! I suppose we could land at Tocache . . . unless the Peruvian Army decides to make things difficult, of course . . . "
"Um, Pete, wait . . . " Pete paused in mid-stride and looked back towards Sam with a puzzled frown. "I already scrambled the chopper . . . I'm sorry, I didn't even think to check with you first. Lupe and Raquella are meeting me at the helicopter pad in fifteen minutes."
Pete smiled, nodded. His heart squeezed deep inside, but he didn't say anything about that. Somehow, the timbre of Sam's voice had managed, just for a moment, to match Pete's memories of MacGyver's voice – it must be at least fifteen years back – apologising sheepishly for some moment of wild improvisation that had saved both their lives. Sorry, Pete. I just went ahead . . . you okay?
"Lupe? Dr. Salazar? Why?"
"Lupe can direct the pilot for the night landing – trust me, she's got this knack. The pilot told me about it himself," Sam answered. "Raquella's our ticket into the area. There's a big clinic in Tocache and a little satellite one in Puerto Pizano. The way the news is spreading, it won't be too much of a surprise when extra medical staff turn up."
"I thought you said there weren't any casualties."
"Yeah. Hard to believe, isn't it? It's so hard to believe that Raquella's going anyway. She won't let Pilar come, though."
Pete had gone very still, very suddenly. He reached out and caught Sam's arm. "You weren't planning on my coming, were you?"
Sam opened and closed his mouth, a fish beached on a dry strand. Pete nodded with resignation and let him go.
"Keep me posted. I'll stay here with Pilar and keep her from running off into the bush and risking her life."
"Pete . . . "
"Go on! Get out of here. The chopper's waiting." Pete turned away from Sam and tugged the sash of his bathrobe a little tighter. Frustration warred with pride. Pride won – pride for Sam, not his own personal pride.
"If there's any questions, have the pilot call me. I'll tell him you have my complete confidence." He turned back to Sam and flapped his hands. "Scoot."
- x -
"Just the one man – so far, anyway – I know, it sounds crazy, but it's true. He's in here . . . " Dr. Quiñones, the head physician at the clinic in Tocache, was talking so quickly to Raquella that Michael Thornton could barely follow the rapid Spanish as he trailed in their wake. "No identification, no idea who he is. He was brought in to the clinic in Puerto Pizano earlier this evening, and they had him brought here – "
"They moved him that quickly?" Raquella's face darkened with professional outrage. "What, they were afraid to keep him? Esteban thought he'd be better off if the poor bastard dies in this clinic instead?"
"Dr. Salazar, relax, he was stable – that's what I'm trying to tell you. He hasn't been shot and he wasn't caught in the explosions. As far as anybody knows, nobody was. No burns – "
As the doctor swung the door open, Michael took one look at the still figure on the bed, whirled and dashed back down the hallway.
"Lupe! Lupe! Where's Sam?"
"He just left – I think he's off looking for someone to interview – "
"Get his ass back here now! ¡Ándale!"
Michael hurried back, shouldered past Dr. Quiñones and Raquella, and took two steps towards the bed. He stopped with a yelp when a hard-eyed mestizo in ragged camo materialised in front of him. Michael found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle. A big rifle.
"No closer! Who the hell are you?"
Michael's eyes widened; he remained very still. He thought of his father and tried to pretend that he was used to angry men with loaded guns, that he could face them down any day. He swallowed. "I could ask you the same thing." He risked a glance over at the doorway. Raquella and Dr. Quiñones were glowering at each other.
"And what is this man doing here?" she demanded. "Alejandro, did you know he was here? And armed?"
Quiñones shrugged. "I thought he had left . . . I told him, no guns allowed here, but who listens to me?"
Sam's feet pounded out in the hallway, and he pushed into the room past the glowering doctors.
"Michael, what the hell's going on . . . ?" his voice trailed off when he saw the rifle. His eyes flicked from the dark stare of the gun barrel to the dark eyes of the man who held it; but in the same moment – a very long, breathless moment – the rifle swung down to the ground, and the ragged guerrilla stepped forward and clasped Sam's shoulder, studying his face. To Sam's surprise, he spoke in English.
"He did not tell me he had a son."
The calloused hand cupped Sam's face for a moment, then the man stepped back. "I am Xavier. Come, see for yourself. Your father will live, unless these fine doctors are all fools."
The clinic had never been intended to function as a hospital. The tiny examination room where MacGyver lay unconscious on the exam table quickly grew overcrowded. Xavier would neither leave the room, nor allow anyone to enter except for Sam and the doctors.
Raquella shooed Michael away, to call his father with the euphoric news and arrange for the helicopter to be ready to leave at first light. He then collared Lupe, who was determined to remain underfoot, and hauled her off to Tocache's only watering hole, to gather what news they could. He didn't think they'd learn much from the enigmatic man who had been ready to kill to protect Mac, but wouldn't admit to anything more than his name; and Michael didn't see any use in crowding him.
Dr. Quiñones relinquished his territory to Raquella, and grumbled his way home to bed. Raquella came and went as needed, leaving Sam on his own in the sickroom for much of the time. She knew, by instinct or experience of her countrymen, what she was doing: once it was plain she would not intrude casually, Xavier began to talk, quietly and succinctly, to Sam. Sam sat holding his father's right hand, careful not to displace the IV tubes – the left arm was now swathed in bandages – and listened to the regular hiss of the oxygen and the soft, matter-of-fact voice of the senderista.
Sam didn't think he had nodded off. But if he hadn't, then the three strange men had simply walked in between one eyeblink and the next. Xavier seemed unalarmed at the sudden materialisation, so Sam dropped back into his chair, his half-formed shout unvoiced. Two of them remained near the door while the third crossed to where Xavier sat and began to talk to him. Sam couldn't even pick out individual words in the rapid flow of sounds. Quechua, I bet, or maybe even Asháninka.
With the immediate panic set aside, Sam's next thought was for his camera. It would be such a great shot, gritty and powerful – but he hadn't wanted to risk the delicate trust Xavier had extended by brandishing a camera. He doubted they'd agree to be photographed anyway. The men were obviously adults – one was old enough to show some grizzle in his straight dark hair – but the tallest of the three was barely his height. Their dark faces were faintly Asian. They were dressed like Xavier, in ragged khaki and camo, and all three were armed. They carried their weapons – two twelve-gauge Winchester shotguns and an FAL rifle – with a casual expertise.
Sam frowned at the men's feet. Two of them wore battered rope sandals; the third wore an incongruous pair of fine leather boots, mud-splashed but nearly new. The left boot was marred with slashes where strips of leather had been cut out, and the dark skin of the man's leg could be seen through the gaps.
The conversation was animated but brief; the oldest of the Asháninka, the one with the rifle, seemed to be giving a report. Xavier asked occasional questions, and finally nodded and gestured towards the door.
"Adios, Sinchi." Something in the tone made Sam guess he wasn't hearing just a casual good-bye. Go with God. The three men slipped back into the corridor with less noise than a passing breeze. Sam couldn't help himself; he hurried to the door and peered out into the hallway, then turned back to Xavier.
"That's pretty slick," he said. "Do they actually turn invisible? Or do they cloud men's minds, or something like that?"
Xavier blinked at him, then barked a hoarse laugh. "That would be telling secrets, Maqito."
"The name's Sam."
"Are you so different from your father?"
"Um, maybe not . . . " Sam's attention snapped back to MacGyver, who had begun to grow restive. He darted back to the bedside, peering into his father's face.
"Raquella? Dr. Salazar? I think Dad may be coming around . . . " Sam's voice trailed off. Raquella appeared in the doorway and took one stumbling step into the room. She could come no further; behind her loomed the massive shape of Terco. He had one hand clenched in the collar of her white coat, the fabric bunched up and half-strangling her, and was holding a pistol to her head with his other hand.
Sam looked wildly from Terco to Xavier, and his face blackened when he saw no sign of surprise in Xavier's face. His rifle lay across his knees under his slack hands. "You son of a bitch . . . you never meant to let him go, did you?" he stormed, growing even angrier when the only answer was a shrug. "Bastard!"
Terco smirked, and took the gun away from Raquella's head. One hard shove sent her staggering towards Sam. He covered them both with the pistol, a Beretta 92, as he gave Sam a long, careful look, ending in a satisfied glint. Sam bridled. He'd seen that look more than once, and he'd quickly learned to hate it. Leverage. God damn you, I'm not a prybar. Don't you dare think you can use me to move my father.
The satisfied gaze moved back to Raquella, along with the focus of the gun. Terco jerked his chin towards where MacGyver lay. "How soon before we can take him out of here?" The curt words were in Spanish, although Sam was certain the man had understood his English perfectly well, especially the swearing.
Raquella drew herself up to her full height and glared. "He's not going anywhere except to the hospital in Lima."
"Bullshit." Terco took a menacing step closer to her. "You patch him up so he comes with me, or he dies right here. And you'll wish you had died quickly, you revisionist whore." He seized her again, by the front of her coat, and shifted his grip on the gun, ready to lash her across the face.
Sam hated being discounted as nothing better than leverage. But he loved being overlooked, even momentarily. The room was small and Terco was a nice, large, close target; and Sam had seen him set the safety on the Beretta – guess you lose points if you try to pistol-whip someone and end up shooting your own foot, huh? Terco wasn't even watching him when Sam's leg lashed out in a hook kick, knocking the gun cleanly out of his hand and sending it clattering off into a corner. He released Raquella and turned towards Sam with a roar of rage that ended in a choke when Sam's next kick, another hook, caught him in the throat.
Terco staggered backwards, coughing, his hands clenching and unclenching, as Sam grabbed Raquella and pushed her into the corner behind him. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that she was scrabbling for the fallen gun. He was bracing himself and judging the best moment for his next move when a double thunderclap deafened him.
Terco's body erupted in a spray of blood; he reversed and staggered forward, toppled and fell heavily. The back of his shirt lay in blood-soaked tatters, an inadequate veil over the red ruin beneath; and the back of his head had been blown open. The antiseptic smell of the room was drowned in an overpowering stench of gunpowder and blood.
In the doorway, Sinchi lowered the shotgun he held, bowing sardonically to Xavier. Sam stared in confusion, trying to sort out the confusion of what had just happened. Bang, boom – two shots? Shotgun and . . . He looked in bewilderment from Sinchi back to Xavier.
Xavier was lowering his own gun – not the rifle, which still lay across his knees; from somewhere he had produced a pistol that Sam hadn't even suspected he was carrying, a 9mm Browning automatic. Now he held it loosely in his hand. His face was utterly blank.
Sam pulled Raquella to her feet and held her close, both of them shaking, watching as Sinchi and his companions picked up the body of Terco and disappeared again. Even with the heavy burden, they made little more noise than mice. Xavier watched them go, his face still expressionless.
Sinchi nodded at him one last time as they left. "Adios."
Sam looked at Xavier as the Browning vanished again into his clothing. He watched the man lift the rifle from his lap, unload it, and lean it against the wall behind him. "I . . . I'm sorry . . . "
The answer was yet another shrug. Xavier seemed to have an entire dictionary of shrugs, each with its own rich nuances.
"What'll you – " Sam was interrupted before he could finish.
"Wha's goin' on . . . ?"
They started at the muttering from the bed; before Raquella could get to MacGyver and stop him, Mac had reached up and pulled the oxygen mask from his face. He tried to sit up, and was halted by Xavier's palm flat against his chest. Mac scowled at Xavier, whose own mask had suddenly melted; he scowled back, but without conviction.
"Idiot. Lie still and let the pretty doctor do her job. I didn't haul your ass all this way to let you waste my hard work."
"Xavier . . . thought I heard Terco . . . gunshots . . . "
"You did. Forget Terco. There's someone else here who wants you home." He looked over his shoulder at Sam, and gestured with his head to ask the young man to approach. "Don't push it. He might change his mind."
MacGyver's haggard face lit up. "Sam . . . "
"Hey, Dad . . . " Sam bit his lip. "You look like hell, in case you're wondering. How long since you had a shave? Or a bath? Or a square meal?"
Mac tried to run his right hand along his stubbled jaw, but Sam caught at the arm. "Stop right there, okay? They didn't stick all those tubes into you just for fun, Dad. And I'm putting that oxygen mask back on you, and you're gonna keep it there, you got that?"
"You been takin' lessons from Pete?" Mac glowered.
"No, from Raquella – Dr. Salazar here."
"Your mom was never this bossy." Mac's eyes flicked up towards the door to the hallway. "Where's Xavier goin'?"
The guerrilla had slipped out of the room and was well down the corridor before Raquella, running, caught up with him.
"Wait! Where are you going?"
He turned an unsmiling face to her. "If I knew, I wouldn't tell you, pretty doctor."
"But you don't know? Then don't leave." She caught at his arm. "For God's sake, you just saved his life! And mine."
Xavier scowled. "If I had not brought him here – "
"You have nowhere to go, do you, señor?"
Xavier shrugged.
"Why leave? You're needed here. You've been treating him, haven't you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You kept him alive. Don't deny it." Raquella tightened her grip on Xavier's arm. "You must care about him or you wouldn't have brought him here. What are you going to do, just disappear back into the jungle? Go find a bullet to stop?"
"Pretty little doctor." Xavier was shaking his head. "What difference will it make if I do?"
"It will make a difference. It already has. Don't you understand?" She tugged at his arm, inexorably turning him away from the exit. "That's not just my patient in there. He's yours also."
Xavier met her eyes with a scowl. "Bush medicine. What of it? Who cares?"
Raquella gave an unladylike snort as she drew him back down the hallway towards MacGyver's sickroom. "Come here. Look at this." Sam and MacGyver watched with astonishment as she marched Xavier back inside and over to Mac's bed, where she lifted Mac's right hand. "Both wrists were injured at the same time, yes? One still unhealed – that was the origin of the septicemia – the other already healing cleanly. That didn't happen by accident. What did you use? Kiratarixi?"
"No. I couldn't find any. If I had, maybe . . . " He shrugged again.
"Um . . . " Mac cleared his throat. He still hadn't let Sam replace the oxygen mask. "Can I have my hand back when you're all done?" Raquella released him with a start, and he caught at Xavier's sleeve. "C'mon, Xavier, spill before I go nuts. What happened? How'd I get here?"
"You don't remember anything?"
"I – ," Mac groped mentally. "I remember the fireworks, of course. I remember – I think I remember a boat . . . where am I, anyway?"
"You're in Tocache," Raquella broke in. "In the clinic. You're lucky to be alive." She tried to replace the oxygen mask herself, but Mac fended her off.
"After the explosions, most of the workers ran," Xavier said. "There was fighting after that. Raoul is dead – he started shooting the traquateros. They shot back."
Mac's eyes hardened. "I oughta be able to say I'm sorry . . . "
"Raoul was an animal." Xavier's voice was flat.
Mac nodded grimly, then frowned. "Xavier, hang on a minute. How do you know all this? You hauled me outta there right after the fireworks started, didn't you?"
"Yes, yes. Sinchi and Jair and Ira were all here. They told me what happened. The real fighting broke out when the pilot saw what had happened to his plane."
"But we didn't blow up the plane." MacGyver looked aggrieved. "We blew up the fuel."
Sam raised an eyebrow at his father. Raquella giggled.
"Okay, so I guess it musta messed up the plane. I sure hope it did," Mac added with heat.
"You could put it that way," Xavier grinned. "Sinchi said the shrapnel from the fuel drums must have sliced through one of the tiedowns. The plane flipped over."
"No kiddin'?"
Xavier nodded with delight, gesturing expansively as he spoke. "For such a short flight, it was a very rough landing. Sinchi said the wings were almost ripped off, and it was lying on its back like a crushed beetle. And the plane's skin looked like it had the pox."
"What the hell did you use on it anyway?" Sam asked. "Xavier said you were messing around with – excuse me – aluminum and sugar?"
"And permanganate."
Sam glared at him. "Dad. Don't tell me you were cooking up manganese oxide!"
Mac looked even sulkier. "I'm not that crazy."
"Beg to differ. So – aluminum dust, powdered permanganate and sugar? Cool. That a traditional MacGyver family recipe?"
"Guess it is now." Mac frowned. "Xavier. You said Sinchi and the others were here – "
"They are gone."
Xavier's silence was suddenly very loud. Mac raised an eyebrow. "Amigo?"
Finally, Xavier spoke again. "They will go home, if they can. If not, they will go somewhere else. They are taking Julio home too."
"Pablo?"
Xavier shrugged, then shook his head. Sam saw Mac's eyes darken.
"What happened to Terco?"
Xavier looked at his unloaded rifle, then glanced at the floor of the room, where pools and smears of drying blood were plainly visible.
Raquella cleared her throat. "The clinic has no night staff – they will be here at dawn and clean it up then . . . "
Mac's voice was very soft. "So did you lose your closest enemy? Or closest friend?"
Xavier shrugged. "Neither, amigo. Both. He was my cousin."
- x -
At the Hospital Casimiro Ulloa in Lima, Pete had borrowed the office of the attending physician to call Los Angeles with the most recent good news.
"That's right, Nikki – MacGyver's out of danger. He's going to be all right . . . he was only in the early stages of septicemia, and he's responded well to the antibiotics. They've taken him off the oxygen and the IV, and they're moving him out of intensive care already."
A listening silence. "Yeah, 'cranky' is a pretty good description. You know how much he hates convalescence. He's already too bored to be distracted by Westerns any longer."
Another, briefer silence. "No, mostly it's been the nurses trying to flirt with him."
Another pause. "I am not telling him you said that."
A knowing smile at the answer. "Yes, I'll give him your best wishes."
- x -
"Look, kids. We are dropping this subject now. You got that?"
Pete had entered MacGyver's hospital room just in time to hear the outburst. He looked with puzzlement at Sam and Michael's crestfallen faces. "What subject?" he asked.
"They want detailed stats on my bumpy past." Mac growled.
Pete smiled – or, rather, smirked. "So just what do they want to know about? How many times you've been kidnapped by terrorists? Ended a mission in the ICU? Blown up something bigger than a breadbox?"
"No." Mac glowered, and finally sighed. "The number of rides I've taken on the outsides of aircraft."
"Well, you did make a fuss about the chopper ride." They'd brought Mac from Tocache to Tingo María in the helicopter, and then airlifted him by plane to Lima.
"Pete, it wasn't Dad who made the fuss at first. It was that chopper pilot. He thought Dad was Sendero, and said he'd rather eat ground glass – well, anyway, he didn't want Dad in the chopper."
"Or Xavier," Michael added. "Especially not Xavier."
"That's when Xavier offered to stay behind, and Raquella wouldn't let him, and Lupe suggested Dad ride on the outside of the helicopter, and Dad was too out of it to realise she was joking, and – "
"Who says I was joking?" Lupe interrupted.
Michael wrapped an arm around her head and scrubbed her scalp with his knuckles. Xavier, who had been standing to one side with his arms folded and a stolid expression on his face, finally joined in the laughter. "Is that how you Americanos keep your women in line?"
"Nope. It doesn't work, and they always find a way to get you back anyway."
"Ah." Xavier nodded solemnly. "Not so different at all."
Pete turned to Xavier, holding out his hand. "I don't think I've thanked you properly."
Xavier shrugged, then looked embarrassed as he took Pete's hand and began to stammer. "Forgive me, señor, I did not think – "
"My eyesight's limited, but not gone. I can see you clearly enough. I can also see that you're at loose ends, and I want to help. It's the least I can do after all you've done."
In the week since they'd brought MacGyver out of the back country, Xavier had seemed to dwindle even as Mac regained strength. He was ill at ease and out of place in the city; his clean new clothes seemed to hang on him like sacks. He shrugged again and spoke softly but very clearly. " 'After all I've done', señor? Have you even stopped to think of all that means?"
Pete bowed his head gravely in acknowledgement, but the set of his shoulders showed that he wasn't backing down. "If you think you need to leave the country, I can find you some options. I have contacts in several refugee organisations – "
"And I am one of the men who made refugees of them," Xavier interrupted bitterly. "If they should raise their hands to help me, it would be an insult to the dead and living alike."
"Xavier." Mac called from his bed, reaching out a hand towards him. Xavier folded his arms again, tightly.
"No. I will not leave my country. Not even if there was a place to go – everything I have done with my life, all the evil I did hoping for good, I thought I was doing for my homeland. Am I to run away from her now, this country that I have loved so much, wronged so much?"
"But won't it be dangerous for you to stay – ?" Pete began.
Michael cleared his throat. "Um, Dad, can you hang on a moment?" Pete looked at his son with surprise, but Michael pressed on, not waiting for an agreement. "I've got an idea that might make a difference. Xavier – you speak Quechua, right?" Xavier nodded, and Michael nodded in turn, smiling. "I could really use a translator, a good one. Preferably one who doesn't scare easily. And I bet my wife will want to spend a lot of time asking you questions about biopharmaceuticals."
"Your what?" Pete interrupted. He stared at Michael.
"Well, fiancée, actually." Michael reached out an arm and pulled Raquella to his side. "I hope you and Mom are ready to be instant grandparents. Raquella's already got two kids."
Mac and the others watched the broad smile slowly bloom across Pete's face, as days of clues and hints, each one ignored or overlooked at the time, suddenly fitted into place to form a pattern of overarching joy. He strode over to Michael, embraced first him and then Raquella. "If you're ready, I'm more than ready . . . does your mother know?"
"Naw . . . um, I wanted to tell you first. And things got kinda busy . . . and they're still busy." Michael turned back to Xavier. "Well, amigo, what do you say?"
Xavier looked past Michael at Raquella, with dead eyes in a face that had become a blank mask. "You have children, Señora? What of your husband?"
Raquella smiled, a sad and bittersweet smile, and shrugged. Mac wondered if, in the years ahead, Michael would also acquire a broad vocabulary of shrugs.
The next question was almost a whisper, with a bitter edge laced with agony. "How can you bear to be in the same room with me?"
Raquella frowned and slipped from Michael's side, stepping purposefully up to Xavier and grasping him by both shoulders. Sam held his breath, expecting fireworks and explosions; only the day before, he'd heard her flaying the ears off of a sloppy hospital orderly whose carelessness had endangered a patient's life. She was in her twenties, only two or three years older than Michael, but like most of the women he'd met in Peru, she seemed to have the maturity and confidence of someone three times her age.
"Stop that. Unless you intend to fall to your belly and crawl back to the jungle and die there, slowly or quickly. This one time, I will step aside if you insist. But I don't think you truly wish to die." She fixed him with a piercing, questioning stare. "Well? Do you?"
Xavier shook his head.
"Good. Live. There's work to do. And if it is of any help to you, Sendero did not kill my husband. The Army did."
Xavier seemed to have lost his voice entirely, but the dead look was gone from his face. He lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.
"Yes, I am certain. Felipe was a journalist." She reached out to Michael, clasping his hand tightly. "I have told Michael that he may do and be whatever he likes and I will not complain, as long as he never becomes a journalist."
Pete cleared his throat to speak, but before he could say anything, they heard running footsteps in the corridor outside, followed by an alarmed exclamation in Spanish. "Catch her! No, no, you bad monkey, come back here!"
The door was flung open and a small figure darted in, dodged through the forest of legs, and dived under Mac's bed. Mama Ortiz reached the entrance to the room and began to scold. Concepción's dark eyes peered out from under the bed. She glanced around as if weighing her chances, then sprang out, clambered up Xavier's legs with the speed of much practice, reached his chest level and swung from there onto Mac's bed. She landed on top of MacGyver hard enough to knock the breath out of him, bouncing and giggling, chanting, "Maq', Maq', Maq', Maq' . . . "
"Whoa!" Mac caught her hands as she grabbed a double fistful of his hair. "Ow! Okay, yeah, encantada, you little menace." He looked at Xavier with a grin that faded at the edges when he saw how still the other man was standing. Yeah. Whoa. How long's it been since the last time a child touched you voluntarily? Or looked at you without seeing death? "Hey, Xavier."
"¿Que?" Xavier started.
"You're the tallest guy in the room – well the tallest one standing, anyway. Here. She likes height." Mac beckoned him closer. "Put her on your shoulders. Just don't let her – ow – grab your hair." He pulled his head away as Concepción gleefully settled onto the shoulders of the bemused Xavier, and ran his fingers through his abused hair. "Mama Ortiz, que tal aqui?"
Lupe piped up. "Sam and I ran into her at in the market, and she asked about you. I told her she should come and see you. Her face suddenly fell. "Oh! I blew your cover! Maq', I'm so sorry, I didn't think . . . "
"Hey, s'okay. No harm done." Mac was watching Xavier.
He'd managed to get Concepción to transfer her grip from his hair to his uplifted hands, and she was now standing on his shoulders, beaming down at the distant world in astonished triumph. She let go of one of the supporting hands, reaching up to try to touch the ceiling; but her foot slipped and she began to fall.
Even before the child had a chance to shriek, Xavier had caught her safely and was lifting her back up on to his shoulders. The scream of fear turned into a squeal of delight and Concepción hugged Xavier's head, pulled his moustache, then clambered back onto his shoulders and dived off again, this time deliberately. He caught her again and held her up, tried to look severe, and failed.
"¿Otra vez, monita?"
"¡Otra vez!"
Xavier's eyes were damp in his smiling face as she climbed up again.
- x -
July in the Andes was almost exactly like June: chilly mornings and bright hot sunny days, and clear dry weather. As always this near the Equator, the steady progression of nearly equal nighttime and daytime continued to confuse anyone who was expecting long summer days and short nights. Even after this many weeks in Peru, MacGyver suspected that Sam still found it disorienting.
He checked his horse at the top of a slope and looked back over his shoulder to see how Sam was coming along. Not too badly, considering he'd never been on a horse in his life until just a few years ago. He would never be a natural rider, but at least he no longer looked as if he was trying to straddle a four-legged motorcycle.
"You doin' okay?" he called.
Sam grimaced and shifted in the saddle. "The horse is doing just fine. Me . . . " He looked at his father with an unreadable expression.
"What?"
"It's just really good to see you looking like yourself again."
"Yeah, well." Mac rubbed a hand through his hair with a grimace. "The skunk look just wasn't gonna cut it."
"That's not what I meant!" Sam couldn't help laughing. By the time MacGyver had been released from the hospital in Lima, his hair was showing light roots under the dark brown dye. Mama Ortiz had found someone local who could strip out enough of the dye to make the effect less startling, since Mac had refused to even consider cutting his hair short. The new growth showed more grey than ever before, but neither of them mentioned that.
The trail was dry and the riding was easy, and a friend of Pilar's had entrusted them with two beautifully-mannered paso horses; the smooth gait made it much easier for Sam to endure the strain of riding. He was determined that his father was not going to make this particular trip alone.
MacGyver was privately worried that he wouldn't be able to find the place again at all – that high rocky ledge in the sierras north and west of the Mantaro River, where the nameless rivulet emerged from the thickening flange of woods and hurled itself off the precipice. He wondered if they'd get there only to find all traces of the scuffle vanished, or a mocking message left carved into the rocks like a petroglyph.
- x -
The body was still there.
The birds and animals had been there too, of course, and the harsh sun and drying winds. The remains weren't pretty. But Murdoc's body was identifiable, not just from the missing right hand and left foot – immediately visible with the looted boots missing – and the bloodstained clothing. The discarded crutch still lay where it had fallen.
MacGyver had seen worse in his time. Sam hadn't – not yet – and turned away, trying not to retch. He knelt by the stream and rinsed out his mouth, and his gripping fingers left dents in the soft earth of the bank as the young man fought for control. Mac stood beside him, not speaking, resting a hand on his son's shoulder until Sam had pulled himself together. When he finally looked at the body again, his jaw set into rigid lines with the effort, but he didn't flinch again.
Mac handed one folding shovel to Sam, and set to work with a second. No need to improvise this time. They began to dig the grave in silence and accord. Mac didn't have to insist on the depth; Peru had too many shallow graves already. The earth was dry and sandy, laced with gravel, not too hard to move.
In spite of that, it wasn't long before MacGyver began to flag, and Sam reached out with his own shovel and hooked Mac's away from him. It slid out of his grasp and thumped on the ground.
"Hey!"
"Dad, get real. Please."
"What?"
"Get out of the sun and sit down. I can handle this." He glowered at the stubborn lines that had immediately begun to settle into his father's face. "You promised Pilar and Raquella that you wouldn't overdo it. You've barely been out of the hospital a week." As MacGyver started to answer, Sam added, "And I promised them that I'd keep an eye on you and try to keep you from doing anything stupid."
Mac opened and closed his mouth silently a few times, unable to think of a reply. "Um. Okay . . . "
By the time he'd caught his breath and picked up his shovel again, the grave was deep enough. Filling it in was easier than digging it had been.
When the last shovelful of earth had been tossed and tamped, they stood silent for a moment. There really wasn't anything to say.
"It's over, Dad."
"Yeah." Mac straightened his back and looked out over the broad sweeping river valley and the serried ranges of wrinkled stone. He felt suddenly old. It's really over. Right?
He glanced down at his own hand where it held the shovel. One of his flakier friends from the Bay Area had sworn by the technique – if you're not sure whether you're dreaming or not, look at your own hands. The hand was tanned chestnut-brown, and the long fingers that curled around the handle showed dirt on the knuckles from digging. The palm was calloused from work – all the computers in the world couldn't keep him from doing things with his hands. Under the palm, the shovel was warm and slightly damp from sweat.
He wasn't dreaming. Murdoc was dead.
I wonder how Pete's doing.
- x -
This time, it was Michael Thornton, not Sam, who played the role of attentive assistant, guiding Pete into the penthouse elevator after they'd announced themselves on the private intercom, making certain the presumably blind man didn't bump into the spindly side table in the elegant foyer. Pete walked with dignity, smiling grimly to himself – one careless swipe with his white cane, and he could send a few million soles of delicate Chinese porcelain antiques crashing onto the marble floor. Would a woman like Esperanza Rojas – 'La Roja' – be more enraged over that, or over the destruction of the coca processing compound, smugglers' plane included?
She was waiting for them at the high arched entrance to the penthouse. The high-rise was in the most exclusive part of the Miraflores district of Lima, and the large room behind her had floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the Pacific.
"Señor Thornton."
"Señora Rojas." He bowed his head very slightly. "I trust you're fully comfortable with English? I can keep my translator with me if you require, but I'd personally prefer to keep this conversation strictly between ourselves."
"As you wish." She eyed Michael, and his skin prickled at the shrewd, cold calculation he saw in the assessing glance. "This way, if you please. Your – boy – can wait in the kitchen with my servants until we are finished."
She led Pete into a sumptuous private study, and Michael helped settle him into a fine antique armchair. The room was well-lit, and Pete could actually see his hostess quite clearly: the expensive and exquisite clothing – custom-made European haute couture – the heavy gold jewelry, the flawless dark coiffure that showed a few strands of white, the expertly applied makeup hiding signs of strain. Esperanza Rojas was in her late forties, stately rather than beautiful, with shrewd, hard, dark eyes. He could see the rings sparkling on her perfectly manicured hands – a broad gold wedding band, a showy diamond solitaire, the green glint of an emerald large enough for a signet ring. He smiled and settled comfortably into the silk upholstery of his chair and gently thumped the end of his cane into the lush thickness of the carpet.
"I'm sorry I'm denied the pleasure of admiring your décor," he said affably. "I must say you're putting up an excellent front, in spite of your recent – setbacks."
"I beg your pardon?" The reply was cool. "You said in your message you had something that belonged to me. Something you wished to return personally."
"Yes, of course." Pete reached into his briefcase and produced a plain wooden box, which he held out in her direction. She took it and raised the lid, frowning. The box held a Beretta 92 pistol.
"It's the one Señor Murdoc took from your guard, the night our man freed him from Hacienda Sandoval. And Dr. Velasquez, of course," Pete said matter-of-factly. He gave Esperanza a mental gold star for sanguinity, or self-control; she had made only the faintest of starts at the casual use of Murdoc's name.
"I doubt you'll recognise it personally yourself," Pete continued, "but feel free to have your staff check it out. It's the same one."
When she finally spoke, Esperanza's voice was very tightly controlled. "Where is Murdoc?"
Pete smiled jovially, almost chuckling. "Do you really think I'll tell you that? Just accept that we have him safe, and we know exactly where he is and what he's doing right at this moment.
"You must know that Murdoc pays his debts. He owes you one. He owes me a different kind of debt, and I'm collecting first. As long as I'm still collecting, I can keep you safe."
Pete leaned forward in his chair, the smile gone as if it had never existed. "The Phoenix Foundation is going to resume operations in this country. Dr. Velasquez' clinics are just the beginning. And, as you carefully noticed, my own son is here, and he'll be staying on in Peru indefinitely.
"You make one move against any of my people, and the next thing your people will see will not be Murdoc. They won't see him at all. But they'll know he's been and gone. And by that time, it'll be too late for you."
"I think you're lying." Her voice had become brittle.
"Think whatever you like."
"Murdoc is a helpless cripple!"
"Of course he is. And I'm an old, helpless, blind man." Pete stood up suddenly, towering over Esperanza. He lifted his cane, and without apparently looking, tapped the end gently against the painted saddle of a T'ang dynasty porcelain horse on the side table next to where she sat. The priceless sculpture wobbled slightly. Pete lifted his cane in a light, swift gesture and sat down again. "Are you ready to bet your life on it? Your son's life?"
Esperanza's calm veneer crumbled into a blaze of molten fury. "Don't you dare threaten my son!"
"I'm not making any threats," Pete said evenly. "I'm making an offer. Don't make me withdraw my protection, Señora Rojas."
- x -
In the cabin, MacGyver's voice had trailed away into silence; he was lying half-sprawled on the couch, his head tilted back on the cushions, staring blankly up at the dimly lit ceiling.
Nikki got up to add more wood to the fire, and wondered how late it was. She already knew that cell phones didn't work worth a damn up here – Mac had some kind of technical wizardry going that gave him coverage, but it didn't work for anyone else. She'd long since lost the habit of wearing a watch; she always had her cell with her, and it not only reset itself when she changed time zones, it even kept track of daylight savings time for her.
She looked over at Mac, her brow furrowed with concern, and then half smiled in spite of herself. She settled back on the couch and picked up his wrist, tilting her head to make out the time.
"I think you must be the only man I know who still wears a wristwatch," she murmured. "Except for the big shots who're just showing off that they can afford Rolexes. Crap. Two in the morning?"
"You can't use a cell phone as a compass," Mac replied. "Although they'll do as flashlights in a pinch." He rubbed his face tiredly. When he ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair, it stood on end.
"Oh, God, don't do that." Nikki reached out impulsively and smoothed his hair down while he blinked at her in befuddlement. "For a moment there, you looked like you had that damned mullet again." Reluctantly, she let her mind go back to the subject that was staring them in the face. "So that's why you kept Murdoc's death a secret."
"Yeah. Alive, he was a toothache that just wouldn't go away. But as long as nobody knew he was dead . . . " Mac sat up, gesturing aimlessly.
"I remember – it was right after you finally came back that Pete got Sonja Chapel to cooperate with us," Nikki mused. "He never did tell me how he persuaded her. But we finally got enough on the surviving members of HIT to shut them down for good." Her eyes narrowed. "I couldn't figure out why she didn't insist on at least getting her sentence shortened – instead, Pete got her transferred to a different facility. She must've figured she was safer inside. He let her think Murdoc was still alive, and on the loose."
"Yup. Pete can play pretty hard ball when he wants to . . . I mean, he could . . . aw, nuts." Mac propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, then ran his hands through his hair again. This time, Nikki didn't say anything.
Several minutes passed before she had settled the lump in her own throat. The fire crackled and popped. She shivered. "MacGyver – you saw the files I brought up here with me. If Murdoc really is dead . . . then somebody is trying to take his place. And doing a damned good job of it."
"Sure looks like it."
"And whoever it is seems to know a lot about Murdoc – not just how he operated . . . " she bit her lip.
"Spit it out, Nikki."
She didn't answer. After a moment, Mac pressed on.
"Whoever it is, you think he's gonna want to prove himself . . . or maybe just wrap up that one loose end that Murdoc himself could never manage.
"You think he's gonna try to kill me."
- - x - -
