Don't Look Back (43 page)
“It’s my pleasure,” the nurse said in beautifully accented English as she peeled away the gauze.
Eve admired her pressed green scrubs and latex gloves and said, “I need to do this again.”
The nurse looked at her, puzzled. Then she said, “May I wheel you over to the window?”
“Why?”
“There is something I would like you to see.”
She got Eve into the chair and pushed her across the room. Eve stared out at the empty parking lot below. A few minutes later, a helicopter appeared over the ridge, a big red medical cross on the side announcing it as
CRUZ ROJA
.
Eve leaned forward. “Is that…?”
“It is.”
The chopper landed, and Claire climbed out and into a wheelchair that was guided to meet her. She asked something, and one of the paramedics pointed to Eve’s window. Claire looked up, then folded her arms across her stomach and bent over a little, crying with what looked like relief. Will remained inside the helicopter, strapped to a gurney. Claire wheeled herself back and shouted something to him, and he lifted his head and looked up at Eve.
She saw that he saw her. He was struggling to hold back emotion.
“Is he coming in?” Eve asked.
“No,” the nurse said. “He must go to Oaxaca City for a more serious procedure.”
The paramedic said something and reached for the helicopter door, but Will spoke back to him. Again he looked up at Eve.
He waved to her.
She waved back.
The door closed. The helo pulled up and away, and Eve watched until it was a dot against the Sierra Madre del Sur.
“The woman will be treated,” the nurse said. “And then you can see her.”
“Can I use the phone now? The doctor said I have to wait, but I have a son, and I haven’t—”
The nurse said, “I believe that can be arranged,” and gently took the handles of the wheelchair.
Eve floated down the halls, arriving at a VIP room with a phone waiting on the nightstand. Everything about it—the air-conditioning, the green-tinged cantera tile, the basket of fruit waiting from the consul—struck such a contrast with her past five days that it felt as though she’d been wheeled into another dimension. A basket sitting out in the open. Filled with food. There to eat if she wanted. She fought an instinct to pocket a ripe orange.
“There is a call waiting for you,” the nurse said. “Someone on hold. I will allow you your privacy.” She withdrew, leaving behind the fragrance of jasmine perfume and a lingering air of goodwill.
Eve rolled herself over to the phone and punched the blinking red button. “Hello?”
“Eve? Evie?
“Rick? Hi.”
“I’ve been holding for forty-five minutes. I was getting worried. They told me, and … and … I guess I just wanted to hear you. Know you’re okay.”
“Thank you. I’m fine now. I really am.”
A stern feminine voice said something in the background, and Eve heard Rick’s hand muffle the receiver. He came back on. “Sorry. She’s rushing me out to dinner. She’s been waiting, but I didn’t want to go until I got you. She’s …
energetic.
”
“Well,” Eve said, “good luck with that.”
“I was wondering if you want me to come out for a few weeks. Take care of you. And Nicolas. I mean, after what you’ve been through.”
She thought she detected a hopeful note in his voice, but it might have been her imagination. “Thanks,” she said. “But I’m okay now.”
From the delay she could tell that was not the answer he’d expected.
After they signed off, she worked up her courage and dialed the number she’d been waiting to dial.
“Jesus H,” Lanie said in a hushed voice. “Really, Mizz H? I mean,
really
?”
“Yeah, Lanie.”
“Hang on. I’ll grab him.”
Hammering footsteps. “Mom? Mom!”
“Hi, Little.”
“Hi, Big. I was okay, Mommy. I was
okay.
”
“What do you mean, honey?”
“The sleepover. I slept over at Zach’s, and I was fine. I did good.”
“I bet you did.”
“Lanie said you’re coming home. Really, Big? Your vacation is really over?”
She covered the receiver and laughed a little. Cried a little, too. Then she put the phone back to her face. “Yeah, Little,” she said. “It’s over.”
Chapter 61
Eve had never flown first-class, but the Mexican government and the consul had arranged for her to coast home on a cushion of luxury, and she wasn’t about to argue. The 737 banked gracefully and rose above the twinkling lights of Mexico City. The flight attendant came by shortly and offered champagne, and Eve took a chilled glass and settled back. She played with her seat controls—legs up, legs down, lumbar support, headrest squeeze—until the woman beside her shot her a dour glare.
Back at the hospital, Eve had seen Claire, of course, and talked to Will, who had called from his ICU bed. He’d lost the leg just below the knee. Preserving the joint was a huge win, which boded well for future ambulation. He and Eve had exchanged numbers, but she didn’t know what the future held for them. While what had happened in the jungle had bound them irrevocably, it could also hold them apart. The shared memories were sharp, and they’d cut easily.
But sharp edges didn’t frighten her as much as they used to.
Jay’s family had been reached, as well as the relatives of the others. Lulu. Neto. Fortunato. Harry. Sue. Don Silverio. And at long last a visit had been paid to the survivors of Theresa Hamilton—an older sister and two parents, who could now begin the painful process of laying her memory to rest. The wake of destruction al-Gilani had left was breathtaking. And the heat of the media spotlight, fixed on the quiet Oaxacan hospital, nearly strong enough to melt the staff’s sanity. Terrorism experts and talking heads filled every TV screen, book offers and news-show invitations flooded the mail room, journalists showed up with their quaint pads and zoom lenses. One enterprising paparazzo had gone so far as to feign injury to infiltrate the ward. It acquainted Eve with how little fun it would be to be famous, and she made a vow to steer far and wide of the fallout, to hold the tiny human moments of what she’d encountered in confidence to herself.
She turned now to the dark window and caught an intimation of a visage there—wispy beard, mottled neck, intense brown eyes. Terror thrummed through her, a low note like jungle thunder, but she didn’t jerk away.
She stared back.
The face was already gone, replaced by her own reflection. She tried to settle her heart rate, her mind racing. In a way she’d carried him out of the jungle with her. He’d be there in windows and mirrors for some time, maybe forever. But she had brought something else out of the jungle, too—a different sense of how expansive and varied the world was, and how expansive and varied she’d have to be herself to partake of it.
She settled back and let the cool air from the fan blow across her cheeks. Then she reached down into her new carry-on and pulled out a battered plastic bag. She opened it and let the heavy volume slide out into her hand. She angled the chair back, putting her footrest up and shooting her neighbor a pointed smile, and opened to the first chapter.
Call me Ishmael.
Acknowledgments
My research for this novel took me from Mexico City to the wilds of Oaxaca. Immense thanks are in order to:
—Guillermo Rode Escandón, a gentleman and a scholar, unafraid to get his spectacles wet on a Class IV white-water-rafting run (or his whistle wet on some mezcal served with a pinch of sal de gusano in La Condesa).
—Álvaro Ricárdez Scherenberg, who showed me around the spectacular Monte Albán ruins in Oaxaca City, offering invaluable archaeological and historical perspective.
—Alberto España Chávez, the finest private tour guide in Huatulco and the only one I couldn’t run ragged, who showed not only stamina but insight into so many aspects of Oaxacan culture, wildlife, and history. Beto, I still regret missing the giant snake,
amigo.
—Dr. Andrew Glassman, a generous host whose help and planning were mission essential. Andy went to great lengths to share his love of Huatulco, going so far as to bribe the pilot of our prop plane to alter course upon our approach, granting me the best view of the glorious nine bays. Andy’s wife, Pilar Frausto de Glassman, not only graciously lent him to me for the trip but gave me the hometown view.
I must also thank Dr. Bret Nelson, M.D., and Dr. Melissa Hurwitz, M.D., for their aid in dealing with the various injuries inflicted upon our long-suffering cast.
My tireless editor, Keith Kahla, was predictably terrific. I’d also like to thank my publisher, Sally Richardson, as well as Matthew Baldacci, Hannah Braaten, Jeff Capshew, Cassandra Galante, Paul Hochman, Christine Jaeger, Martin Quinn, and the rest of my team at St. Martin’s Press. Matthew Shear, you and your grin are missed.
Rowland White of Michael Joseph/Penguin Group UK has been all keen insight and great fun. I should also like to acknowledge Katya Shipster and the other members of that fine, historic house.
I do have the benefit of peerless representation in Lisa Erbach Vance of the Aaron Priest Agency, Caspian Dennis of the Abner Stein Agency, and a crackerjack legal team in Stephen F. Breimer and Marc H. Glick.
I relied on Philip Eisner, April Watson, and Maureen Sugden for editorial assistance, and Dana Kaye for publicity and a whole lot more.
No picture is complete without Rose and Natalie raucously underfoot and Simba languidly underdesk.
Also by Gregg Hurwitz
The Tower
Minutes to Burn
Do No Harm
The Kill Clause
The Program
Troubleshooter
Last Shot
The Crime Writer
Trust No One
They’re Watching
You’re Next
The Survivor
Tell No Lies
About the Author
Gregg Hurwitz is the
New York Times
bestselling author of several novels, most recently
Tell No Lies
and
The Survivor
. He is a two-time finalist for ITW’s Best Novel prize and a finalist for the CWA’s Steel Dagger. Hurwitz is also a screenwriter, TV producer and writer, and comic-book writer (Batman: The Dark Knight). He lives in Los Angeles.
Visit the author’s Web site at
gregghurwitz.net
.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DON’T LOOK BACK.
Copyright © 2014 by Gregg Hurwitz. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photograph © Stephen Mulcahey / Arcangel Images; background jungle © Cavan Images / Getty Images
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-62683-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-4873-3 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466848733
First Edition: August 2014