A Candle in the Dark (17 page)

“Yeah.” His voice was low, so low Ana turned to look at him.

He was staring at Jiméne thoughtfully. In that moment, D’Alessandro looked so pale, so weak, she couldn’t believe he was the same man who had held her last night, the same man who had walked miles with Jiméne slung over his shoulders.

She turned away. She didn’t have time to worry about him, even if she wanted to. They would be in Gatún soon. She could put her plan into action. Before long, she would be on her way. Without him. It seemed almost too good to be true.

“He’s a
curandero
.“D’Alessandro’s words were slow and heavy.

Ana frowned, glancing back over her shoulder. “A
curandero
? What’s that?”

“A doctor,” he said quietly. “Folk doctor. From the village of Dos Hermanos.”

“A folk doctor.” Ana looked down the bank, at the man fighting his way through the underbrush. She let the bags slip slowly to the ground. “Did you tell him about Jiméne?”

“No.”

“Why not? Maybe he can help.”

“I don’t need help.”

His steady words made her angry, the quiet struggle in them reminded her of last night.
I know. I know. I know
. Her fingernails dug into the palm of her hand. The memory brought back her uncertainty, and she felt it again—that need. That damnable need. Fear of it coiled inside her, making it suddenly hard to move or breathe. Because of it, she did the most hurtful thing she could think of.

She laughed. “Oh no?” She motioned to Jiméne. “Pardon me for disagreeing, but it seems you
do
need him. Jiméne’s no better than he was before. Maybe
this
doctor knows what he’s doing.”

If possible, he turned even paler than before. He looked away.

She waited for something. Some biting comment, some nasty jibe, and when it didn’t come, she felt suddenly mean and spiteful. She shouldn’t have said those things, she thought, and for a moment, she wished she could take the words back, but then the
curandero
eased up the final yards of the bank, and his fluent Spanish filled the air.

He watched from the other side of the campfire. Watched the medicine man bend over Jiméne, murmuring prayer songs in a high, singsong voice, forcing tamarind water down his throat and then praying again. Voodoo medicine, Cain thought, but he said nothing, and he didn’t interrupt.

He should be glad Alejo had come along, he told himself. At least now he wouldn’t bear the entire responsibility for Jiméne’s death. Because the Panamanian would die, he had no doubt of it. The last miles, since the dip in the river, Jiméne’s breathing had been raspy and broken, rattling in his chest.

Cain had listened to it until he thought he might go mad.

Yes, he was glad the
curandero
had happened along. Glad that he no longer had to fight his fear or feel that hopeless, restless desperation that had dogged him since Jiméne became unconscious.

Her laughter still rang in his ears, jeering and horrible, echoing in his brain, impossible to forget or deny. It joined those other voices, the ones that told him he was useless as a doctor. The ones that second-guessed him and tormented him. The demons that brought back the memories of a blood-soaked room and a rasping voice.
You’re a doctor, Cain. I trust you, trust you, trust you
…

Ah, Jesus, if only he had been worth trusting. If only he hadn’t taken that final, senseless risk.

But you did take it. You weren’t much of a doctor after all, were you? John Matson’s most promising apprentice turned out to be nothing. Less than nothing.

Why had he thought it would ever be different? His mother had told him—dozens of times—what a failure he was. But he’d refused to believe her then. It wasn’t until later—years later, that he’d realized how right she was…

Hell, he couldn’t even cure a damn fever. He’d been fooling no one with his potions and his knowledge. Not himself, and not her. He stole a glance at Ana, who sat ramrod-straight against a nearby ceiba. Especially not her.

“
He’s no better than he was before.”

“Maybe this doctor knows what he’s doing
.” She hadn’t said it, but the implication was there: “
Because you don’t. You can’t heal him
.” Her eyes burned through him, and he remembered her fear last night, remembered the strength of that damn wall.

You can’t even soothe a woman in the dead of night. How the hell did you expect to heal the sick?

Ah, God, he didn’t want to fight anymore, he thought again. He glanced at the burlap bags, laying abandoned near the fire, and tried to summon the strength to go over to them. But then he saw her again, saw the stiffness of her spine and her unwavering gaze on Alejo, and Cain knew he wouldn’t get up. Not just now, not when the thought of her contempt left him feeling weak and hopelessly inept. Not until later, when she was sleeping, when she wouldn’t be able to see his desperation—or the relief the brandy brought him.

“He is growing cooler, I think.” The sound of Alejo’s quiet Spanish made Cain straighten. “I believe the gods have answered my prayers.”

“I do not feel so well.” Jiméne’s voice was soft, barely audible.

Alejo looked up. “He is awake,” he said softly.

Across the way, Ana leapt to her feet. “What did you say?” The hope in her voice made Cain recoil. “Is he awake? Is the fever broken?”

Alejo nodded shortly. “The gods have been kind,” he said, glancing at Cain. “He is well.”

Spoken with the certainty of a man sure of heaven’s goodwill, Cain thought sourly. He struggled to his feet. “Thank you,” he answered, in Spanish. “We are grateful for your help.”

Jiméne opened his eyes, staring into Alejo’s face. “Who are you?”

Ana laughed, relief exploding in the sound. “He is the man who saved your life, Jiméne,” she said, kneeling beside him. She looked up at Alejo as he drew away, and the gratitude lighting her face was almost painful to see. “Thank you.”

“Ahhh!” Jiméne tossed his good arm over his eyes. “I feel trampled.”

“You were shot,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”

“
Sí
.” Jiméne lowered his arm and struggled to one elbow. The blood drained from his face at the movement, and he fell back again, but his expression remained stern. “
Sí
, I remember.
Bastardos
. We must kill them.”

Cain moved closer. “We did already. Most of them, anyway. And as soon as you can hold a gun again,
amigo
, I’ll be the first to send you after the last one.”

Jiméne scowled, looking doubly fierce with the dark circles beneath his eyes marking his fever-pale skin. “He is mine.”

“As you wish.” Cain squatted beside him. “How do you feel?”

“As if I have been dropped off a cliff.” He scowled at Cain’s snorted laughter. “What is it? Why do you laugh?”

“He laughs because he’s a buffoon.” Ana’s sharp voice evaporated Cain’s humor. “He’s been carrying you most of the way. No wonder you’re sore.”

“Carrying me? Like a babe?”

“More like a very heavy dog.” Cain reached for Jiméne’s arm. “I should check that wrapping,
amigo
, just to make sure the wound hasn’t—”

Ana’s involuntary movement stopped him before he touched the bandage. Cain glanced at her, curious, and what he saw in her eyes sent despair spiraling into his gut, brought his hands back to his sides and made the longing explode in his brain.

She didn’t want him to touch Jiméne. Didn’t trust him.

Do you blame her?

He drew away, hands shaking, denial surging through his body.
You’re a fool
, the voice said in his head.
She has never trusted you, and you know it
. And he had known it. He remembered her words outside of Chagres, when she’d simply told him she trusted Jiméne more than him. Heard her words again only hours ago, when she laughed at him for saying he didn’t need Alejo’s help.

But this further, tangible proof of her distrust devastated him. Before it had only been in her eyes, in words he could easily believe were lies. Her unconscious gesture now was more than all that. Before her distrust had been almost deliberate. Now it was real. Real, and painful.

With it came the realization that she was right not to trust him. With Jiméne’s life or hers.
Jesus, I don’t even trust myself
. He hadn’t cured Jiméne. Alejo had done that. Prayers and tamarind had done more than Cain’s knowledge had done, more than all those years of learning, all the sacrifice.

The demons were there again, mocking him. He was a hopeless excuse for a doctor. A failure.
Nothing. Less than nothing
…

Cain stumbled away, moving to the burlap bag across the fire, to the bottles he knew were within. Any self-control he’d had disappeared, melted away as though it had never been. He no longer cared about the contempt in her eyes. No longer cared because he shared it, had always shared it. He grabbed a bottle, twisted off the cork, and gulped the raw, fiery
aguardiente
, gasping with relief at the burn in his chest.

And he knew before he started that it wouldn’t make anything different. Wouldn’t change the way she felt about him or how he felt about himself. There wasn’t enough liquor in the world to do that.

But he was willing to try to make it enough. More than willing.

“Do you try to kill me?” Jiméne asked irritably. He turned his head away, grabbing at the spoon Ana held while a chunk of pork slid greasily down his chin. He wiped it away irritably. “I can do it.”

“Fine.” Ana dropped the spoon into his lap and pushed back her rickety stool. “You’re the one who asked for help, Jiméne. Don’t scream for me when it doesn’t work the way you wish.”

“Of course.” He was immediately contrite. “Please forgive me,
cariña
, it is just that—” He paused, then motioned at the bowl of pork stew in his lap. It was cold and congealed now, a layer of thick yellow fat on the surface. “It is just that I cannot eat this slop.”

“It’s all there is,” Ana said simply. She pulled the stool close to his hammock again, brushing aside the thick braid that lopped forward at her movement. “Eat it. You need the strength.”

He nodded, his mouth curving in a dour grin before he picked up the spoon again with his good hand and took a bite. For a moment, Ana watched him, making sure he could handle the job himself before she looked away. Right into D’Alessandro’s back.

Ana scowled. Her partner sat at a table at the side of the crowded one-room hut, surrounded by other men. They were playing monte and drinking, and talking loudly. But mostly drinking. She watched as D’Alessandro tipped back his head and gulped at a bottle of
aguarediente
. He was oblivious to everything: to the mean, dirty hut where they’d paid to stay, to the blasted heat and the odor of sweat and pork clinging to the walls. All he cared about was drinking and gambling away her gold coins.

Since they’d arrived in Gatún and Alejo had moved on, D’Alessandro had even forgotten Jiméne. It was true that the Panamanian had made a remarkable recovery—the only real sign of his fever was the sling wrapped around his arm—but short of dosing him lightly with laudanum and some other kind of powder, D’Alessandro had done nothing more to make sure Jiméne was healing.

His biggest concern, she remembered, was finding another bottle.

Well, he’d found it easily, and his actions only strengthened her resolve. The moment she could, she was leaving. All that remained was to steal the ticket from D’Alessandro, which would be easy once he was asleep. Actually, as drunk as he was, she could probably do it while he was awake without his feeling a thing. Then, once the ticket was in her hands, she would grab Jiméne and go.

In fact, the one hitch to her plan so far was Jiméne. She hadn’t told him what she planned, though the idea to take him had occurred to her when the
curandero
healed him so quickly. Why should she go on with strangers when she could take Jiméne? She didn’t need to scour Gatún for a partner to replace D’Alessandro. She already
bad
another partner. That was, she did if he was well enough to walk.

She still had to get Jiméne to agree to leave with her, but Ana didn’t doubt his answer. In spite of their newfound bantering, he and D’Alessandro still disliked each other. And Jiméne claimed often enough that he loved her. Now it was time for him to prove he meant it.

She swallowed, and turned again to watch Jiméne eat. The nauseating stew was almost gone, and he was starting to look a little green. Which was hardly surprising, considering she’d barely managed to choke down a few mouthfuls herself.

“Full?” she asked.

Jiméne nodded, pushing the bowl away. “
Si
, take it.” Then, when Ana lowered it to the floor, he smiled weakly. “
Gracias, cariña
. I apologize for my temper. I am—I am not myself.”

“Your arm hurts?”

He hesitated slightly. “
Si
. It hurts. Perhaps you should call D’Alessandro?”

“I doubt he can spare the time.” As if to punctuate her comment, the laughter at the table grew. She threw them a bitter glance. “You’ll have to wait until he’s out of brandy.”

“Ah.” Jiméne was quiet. He stared at his fingers thoughtfully. “He has been like this for a long time?”

“Since I’ve known him.”

“He has never been better?”

“He’s getting worse.” Ana bit off the words, surprised at the extent of her rising anger. Dammit, D’Alessandro didn’t matter to her. His drinking made no difference anymore. She was leaving. Putting him behind her as a bad wager and a worse memory. She forced her voice to stay calm and even. Now was the time to ask Jiméne to go along. Now that he’d seen firsthand what a liability D’Alessandro was. “In fact, I—”

“
¡Dios
!” A loud voice boomed from the table, followed by hysterical laughter. “
¡Creo que Pedro está traqueado
!”

“¡Sí!”

Jiméne chuckled. “It is not only Pedro who is drunk,” he said in a low voice. “They are all drunk.”

“Jiméne—”

“Perhaps D’Alessandro is winning, eh? Then
he
could pay for this hovel.”