Immune (62 page)

The Canadian family had migrated to Bolivia, along with a large number of their fellow Mennonites, in 1967. And in loose cooperation with the Bolivian government, they had bought a large section of land northeast of Santa Cruz, a short distance from Quatro Cañadas, where they and other Mennonites had built farming communities. Now they sold their soybeans to ConAgra and supported MEDA, the Mennonite Economic Development Associates, helping the poorer members of their sect establish credit and buy their own land.

Life at the Robertson Farm these last six weeks had been like stepping out of the modern world and being transported back in time a hundred and fifty years. Although the Mennonites avoided modern technology, many families in the area used tractors to farm their lands. Not the Robertsons. Their love of the old ways allowed for nothing more than plowing the land with teams of oxen, driving to town in a horse-drawn carriage, and performing a good, hard day of physical labor.

By night, things changed in an almost magical way. The multigenerational family assembled around the candlelit dinner table, thanked the Lord for their abundance and for each other, and then dined in a spirit of appreciation that Heather thought truly wonderful. Something about coming in after a day of hard work made the shared repast even more special. In a sad-happy way, they reminded her of her own family.

Heather glanced across the field at Jennifer and Mark as they worked their weeding hoes. Their run from the Espeñosa Estate to Cartegena and then to Santa Cruz had resulted in two more deaths, both at Mark’s hands, as they struggled to escape Don Espeñosa’s grounds.

As Heather looked at Mark, a lump rose in her throat. When she had fallen in love with him she didn’t know. Maybe she’d always been there. Sometimes she thought she should tell him. After all, his feelings for her were so clear they could have been stenciled on his forehead.

But somehow Heather couldn’t bring herself to do it. As much as Mark thought she blamed him for the people he’d slain, she blamed herself. Everything Mark had done had been part of her visions. She had chosen the path they all walked. And while they were all still alive, the pain they had experienced could only be laid at one doorstep. She could have chosen differently. She could have chosen better.

If it hadn’t been for the success of their operation to shut down the programmable nanites, Heather might have started questioning herself more harshly. While their success in that was great, something about it worried her. Had she made her savant choices in a way that placed the good of the many over the welfare of her friends and family? She didn’t think so, but until she knew for sure that she wasn’t exercising some subconscious, Joan-of-Arc agenda, her feelings for Mark would have to remain hidden.

Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a plume of dust rising along the dirt road toward the farmhouse. A dusty, black Ford Explorer pulled to a stop in front of the house, the sound of its engine dying as the driver-side door opened. It had been six weeks since Heather had even seen a motor vehicle, and she found herself walking toward the house with an air of expectation.

A lean, handsome man in a brown leather bomber jacket and khaki slacks stepped out of the SUV and removed his sunglasses. Jack!

“Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!” The excited yells of the two Robertson grandchildren drifted across the fields in an echo of Heather’s own feelings. Jack grinned as he bent down to scoop them both up, laughing as the two girls wrapped their arms around his neck, covering his cheeks with kisses.

“What did you bring us?”

The universal question brought a smile to Heather’s lips. Even with the Spartan self-discipline the Mennonite lifestyle taught, kids were kids. As she got closer she could see Jack reach into his jacket and pull out two small bags of Hershey’s Kisses, handing one to each child and then placing a conspiratorial finger to his lips. The chocolates immediately disappeared somewhere inside their skirt pockets. Then, with their chocolate treats calling them to a more private place, they raced off, each stopping for one last wave before disappearing around the largest of the barns.

Jack’s eyes caught Heather as she stepped onto the gravel driveway, the warmth of his smile setting her at ease in a way that surprised her. Instead of the awkwardness that usually came with reunions, the bear hug with which he embraced her just felt right. Not exactly like family. More like the celebratory hug of a teammate after you scored the winning goal.

As he stepped back, his eyes swept her appraisingly.

“Let’s see. Tan face. Strong, tan arms. Farm life seems to fit you well.”

Heather nodded. “The Robertsons have been fabulous. They’ve treated us just like family.”

Jack laughed. “Meaning they put you to work.”

“Exactly,” said Mark as he and Jennifer rounded the corner.

“Ah, I was wondering where the other two amigos had run off to,” Jack said, hugging Jennifer, then gripping forearms with Mark in a way that reminded Heather of some old Viking movie.

“Can I help you with your bag?” Mark asked.

“Not necessary. As a matter of fact, you’re the ones who need to start packing. After I visit with Norma and Colin for a bit, I’ll be taking you all with me.”

Heather asked the question before either Mark or Jennifer could open their mouths. “Taking us? Where are we going?”

Once again, Jack smiled that devilish smile of his. Heather had a momentary flashback to the first night they had met Jack and Janet Johnson at her house. And although the memory was tinged with sadness, she had to admit, being around the man made you feel good to be alive.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? We’re going to my ranch.”

“You have a ranch? In Bolivia?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you about it on the way. Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time for that on the world’s crookedest straight road.”

The front door of the house opened, and Norma Robertson leaned out, her gray hair elegantly pinned back beneath a small, round cap.

“Jack Frazier! Are you going to stand outside talking with your young friends or come in and have a proper visit?”

Jack winked at Heather and then strode to the door as they trailed along behind him.

“Never fear, Nana. I was just saying how we should step inside.”

“Humph. I could see that.” Despite her mock reprimand, the older woman hugged Jack like a long-lost son. “Please come in. I’ve sent Jonny to fetch Colin. Oh, and you are staying for dinner, so there will be no arguments.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Jack as they all moved inside the two-story farmhouse.

Dinner. Heather had taken a while to get accustomed to calling lunch dinner and dinner supper. Regardless, it passed too quickly: mutton, biscuits, and yucca, a fried potato-like Bolivian tuber that Heather loved. Then as Jack, Colin, and Norma retired to the sitting room for their private conversation, Heather, Mark, and Jennifer returned to their rooms to pack.

Almost before they knew it, they had changed out of their Mennonite clothes and into jeans, tennis shoes, and T-shirts, had said their good-byes and thank-yous, and were turning off the Robertsons’ dirt road and back onto the highway that led northeast, toward San Javier. Mark rode shotgun beside Jack while Heather and Jennifer occupied the backseat, their bags filling the Explorer’s rear.

It didn’t take long before they understood why Jack had called it the world’s crookedest straight road. For two hours, Jack swerved across both lanes of the highway, dodging deep potholes that covered the straight two-lane highway. And he wasn’t alone. Like some sort of snake mating ritual, both directions of traffic swerved in and out as they moved toward and past each other, only straightening out at the last second to avoid head-on collisions.

“Were you serious about owning a ranch?” Mark asked.

Jack nodded. “I’ve owned it for the last eight years.”

“How did you get it?”

“An acquaintance gave it to me.”

“Gave it to you?” Jennifer interrupted.

“Well, I guess you could say he owed me. Anyway, he was a prominent member of the government, and when an elderly German with a somewhat soiled early life died suddenly, my friend discovered that I was the only heir. Down here people know me as Jack Frazier.”

“Wow! Some acquaintance. What did he owe you?”

“His life.”

Mark laughed. “Well that explains a lot.”

Jack grinned.

The straight part of the road ended as it began rising up through the foothills into the high cattle country surrounding San Javier. The soil in this part of Bolivia was old soil, capable of supporting an abundance of grass, several types of palm trees, and some tall, slender trees that reminded Heather of her high-country aspens, but it was ill suited to crop farming. This was the land that had called to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, a land of magical vistas and huge Bolivian haciendas.

“Is your ranch close to here?” Heather asked, leaning forward in her seat.

“It’s in country just like this, but it’s about an hour northeast of San Javier. I wish I could show you that town, but we don’t have time. Sometime, though, Janet and I’ll bring you down for a meal at our favorite German restaurant.”

Just outside of San Javier, Jack turned off onto a bumpy dirt road, which became their new best friend for the last hour of the drive. By the time the Explorer pulled to a stop in front of the main house at the Frazier hacienda, Heather was sure her butt had flat spots in it.

As they piled out of the SUV, Mark’s intake of breath brought her head up. The main house was a long, one-story building with a high-peaked thatch roof, in the style of the indigenous peoples of the area. To the west, a number of smaller thatched huts stretched out toward the corrals. Beyond them the beautiful rolling countryside spread out in all directions, as far as the eye could see. Above this magnificent view, a spectacular sunset had just begun to bathe the western sky in fire.

Just then, a very pregnant woman stepped out on the front porch. It took Heather several seconds to recognize her.

Janet’s greeting, while less strenuous than Jack’s, held all the self-confident warmth that was this couple’s defining characteristic.

“Janet! Oh my God, you’re so pregnant!” Jennifer’s exclamation brought a frown to Mark’s face.

Janet laughed. “You think?”

Recognizing how she’d said it, Jennifer’s face reddened. But as Janet slid her arm around Jen’s shoulders, the color subsided.

“Come on, guys,” Jack said. “Grab your bags, and I’ll show you to your rooms.”

He paused, looking slowly at each of them. “I wish I could say you’ll all be going home soon, but the truth is, that’s just not in the cards. Jennifer is wanted on a variety of charges associated with her actions for the Espeñosa Cartel, and all of you are marked for death by Espeñosa’s associates. To go home would be to put yourselves and your families in unacceptable danger.”

Although Heather had discussed this very thing with Mark and Jen, hearing it from Jack’s lips hit her with the force of a hammer. She could see that both Mark and Jennifer were also struggling with the shock of the blow.

“Jack,” Janet said, moving up to put her arms around Jennifer’s and Heather’s shoulders. “We can chat about all this tomorrow. Things look much brighter in the morning. Besides, I have steaks in the fridge, just begging to go on the grill. I’m picturing a roaring fire, some marshmallows on sticks, and introducing these upstanding young people to a good bottle of Taquiña. After all, the world’s best beer is Bolivian.”

Heather shrugged off the depression that had settled on her shoulders like a wet scarf. Grabbing her suitcase, she followed Jack into the house, accompanied by her two friends.

A half hour later, her arms around Mark and Jennifer’s waists, they stood on the slope behind the house, looking out at the gathering twilight. They didn’t have to say anything. Despite the horrific price they’d each paid, they had received compensation, a bond of friendship forged of steel.

As Heather hugged her friends close, she could feel it. A bond so strong she pitied anyone who might try to break it.

Janet leaned up against Jack as he turned the first steak, running her hand softly down his arm. Her gaze wandered down the slope toward their new wards.

“Those are three very dangerous young people.”

“Yes,” Jack replied, squeezing her hand. “They most certainly are.”

Coming Soon

Book Three of The Rho Agenda

by

Richard Phillips