able to control. Nikki Kydd, the young woman whose love and betrayal had marked his turning point from a boy into a man. There had never been another like her, and she was still neck deep in the hottest water in Central America.
Remembered pain tightened his mouth into a grim line. The weeks he’d spent looking for her had left permanent scars on his heart. The long days filled with dead ends, the even longer nights of fear, had turned his carefree existence into a battleground where hope always lost out to reality. He’d left messages in a dozen of the places he’d expected her to go, but she had kept running and he hadn’t been able to catch her. In the end her total rejection of him as a friend, a partner, and a lover had forced him to leave San Simeon. Leave or go crazy.
Three years later, the choice was still clear in his mind. He focused again on the newspaper in his hands. Three years later, she still had the power to wound.
He read the article again, more slowly this time. The story unfolded line after line, speaking to him on a personal as well as a political and journalistic level. Nikki was good, the best. Despite her intense hatred of Travinas, she kept to the facts.
But by the second reading, those facts started to unravel a bit around the edges. Everything was in place, almost too neatly. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled a washcloth off the sink, using it to wipe away a stray dab of soap. Beginning at the top, he combed through the story again, searching for the details causing him unease. He found one in the second column, in a quote from a minor official, or so the article said. Josh recognized the name for another reason. The man, or a man with the same name, had been a friend of theirs. He’d owned a cantina they’d frequented, and Josh doubted if the congenial saloon keeper had switched loyalties and become one of Travinas’s followers.
Coincidence, he decided, in spite of his natural journalistic aversion to coincidence. But two paragraphs down he found another memory-jolting sentence, and one more in the next column. The wording in all of them was subtle, the implication almost imperceptible, yet as he read the lines again, the hint of a plea became clear.
Plea for what? And to whom? Nikki was too careful a writer for the hidden meaning to be a result of sloppy work. She’d been sending a message to someone. Only that person—and another who knew her as well as he did himself—would understand.
A knot of fear slowly formed in his gut, making it impossible for him to concentrate. In disgust, he strode into the bedroom and tossed the paper on the bed. He was overreacting, seeing mysteries where none existed. He’d be better off if he, too, kept to the facts. He had only two: she was still in San Simeon and the country was falling down around her ears.
He grabbed his pants and walked over to the dresser for clean underwear. Over the years he’d followed her career through half a dozen newspapers until she’d landed a permanent position at the
Post
. He’d sent her a card, in a fit of weakness, the first time she made the front page, but she hadn’t replied, or if she had, the letter had never reached him. Now Nikki Kydd only did front-page stories.
He zipped his pants, then almost resentfully picked up the paper and snapped it open. Leaning over the nightstand, he underlined the statements he thought could be part of a message, and he felt more like a fool with every stroke of his pen. Until he put them all together.
He wasn’t imagining things. Nikki was sending a message, and she was sending it to him. Slowly he sank down on the bed, the paper spread between his knees. The message spoke of trouble, of need, of a friendship she’d never forgotten, and if he twisted the words ever so slightly, maybe also of love.
He lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He’d missed her for so long, and now she wanted him back. He shook his head, the hint of a wry smile lifting a
Remembered pain tightened his mouth into a grim line. The weeks he’d spent looking for her had left permanent scars on his heart. The long days filled with dead ends, the even longer nights of fear, had turned his carefree existence into a battleground where hope always lost out to reality. He’d left messages in a dozen of the places he’d expected her to go, but she had kept running and he hadn’t been able to catch her. In the end her total rejection of him as a friend, a partner, and a lover had forced him to leave San Simeon. Leave or go crazy.
Three years later, the choice was still clear in his mind. He focused again on the newspaper in his hands. Three years later, she still had the power to wound.
He read the article again, more slowly this time. The story unfolded line after line, speaking to him on a personal as well as a political and journalistic level. Nikki was good, the best. Despite her intense hatred of Travinas, she kept to the facts.
But by the second reading, those facts started to unravel a bit around the edges. Everything was in place, almost too neatly. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled a washcloth off the sink, using it to wipe away a stray dab of soap. Beginning at the top, he combed through the story again, searching for the details causing him unease. He found one in the second column, in a quote from a minor official, or so the article said. Josh recognized the name for another reason. The man, or a man with the same name, had been a friend of theirs. He’d owned a cantina they’d frequented, and Josh doubted if the congenial saloon keeper had switched loyalties and become one of Travinas’s followers.
Coincidence, he decided, in spite of his natural journalistic aversion to coincidence. But two paragraphs down he found another memory-jolting sentence, and one more in the next column. The wording in all of them was subtle, the implication almost imperceptible, yet as he read the lines again, the hint of a plea became clear.
Plea for what? And to whom? Nikki was too careful a writer for the hidden meaning to be a result of sloppy work. She’d been sending a message to someone. Only that person—and another who knew her as well as he did himself—would understand.
A knot of fear slowly formed in his gut, making it impossible for him to concentrate. In disgust, he strode into the bedroom and tossed the paper on the bed. He was overreacting, seeing mysteries where none existed. He’d be better off if he, too, kept to the facts. He had only two: she was still in San Simeon and the country was falling down around her ears.
He grabbed his pants and walked over to the dresser for clean underwear. Over the years he’d followed her career through half a dozen newspapers until she’d landed a permanent position at the
Post
. He’d sent her a card, in a fit of weakness, the first time she made the front page, but she hadn’t replied, or if she had, the letter had never reached him. Now Nikki Kydd only did front-page stories.
He zipped his pants, then almost resentfully picked up the paper and snapped it open. Leaning over the nightstand, he underlined the statements he thought could be part of a message, and he felt more like a fool with every stroke of his pen. Until he put them all together.
He wasn’t imagining things. Nikki was sending a message, and she was sending it to him. Slowly he sank down on the bed, the paper spread between his knees. The message spoke of trouble, of need, of a friendship she’d never forgotten, and if he twisted the words ever so slightly, maybe also of love.
He lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He’d missed her for so long, and now she wanted him back. He shook his head, the hint of a wry smile lifting a
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