TRAPPED (6 page)

Mrs. Hardy had looked at it on one of her trips outside and proclaimed him a genius. Elle knew that there were more matches and it would be possible to start another fire. It dawned on her that Brody was already preparing for the worst—for the likelihood that it might be many days before they were found.

The downpour lasted about forty minutes. When it was over, Elle put on her water shoes. She didn’t intend to go wading through any standing water, but the ground would be damp and she wanted to keep her loafers as dry as possible. She motioned to Pamela and then to Mrs. Hardy, who had earlier insisted that she was able to help collect water.

They followed her outside, as did Brody. She showed them how to gather water from the plants. Once Elle explained that they needed to gather water so that it could be boiled, Pamela had run back to the plane and come out again minutes later, holding what appeared to be a ball of tissue paper. She’d peeled back the paper to reveal a brightly colored coffee cup.

“I bought this in Brasília for my nephew. We can use it to collect water.”

“It’s beautiful,” Elle said. “But we need to be careful to keep dirty and clean utensils separate. Let’s make sure that no water goes into that cup that hasn’t been boiled. Then we can all drink from it. We’ll gather the water in these plastic bags.”

“We can also use my coffeepot,” Mrs. Hardy said.

Brody, Elle, and Pamela had immediately stopped what they were doing. “You have a coffeepot in your suitcase?” Elle asked.

“Never travel without it. It’s just a little four-cupper.”

Brody shook his head. “Mrs. Hardy, you don’t happen to have a spare plane in your luggage, do you?”

“Why, no, I don’t,” she said. “But I may put it on the list for the next trip.”

The other three exchanged looks. Elle knew what she was thinking and suspected the others were tracking. She hoped Mrs. Hardy got to take another trip. She hoped they all did.

“It’s good to know we have another vessel to use,” Elle said. “We’ll use it to brew tea.”

“Now you’re talking,” Mrs. Hardy said, and got busy gathering water. With multiple trips to the first-aid kit with their baggies, Pamela and Mrs. Hardy were able to fill the container with water in less than forty minutes. While they did that, Elle gathered edible berries in a basket that she fashioned out of one of Mr. Hardy’s long-sleeved shirts. She found several coconuts, as well.

“It’s a tropical feast tonight,” she said, bringing her stash back to the group.

Mrs. Hardy smiled. Pamela rolled her eyes, but she did give the coconuts an appreciative glance. Elle looked for Mrs. Hardy’s knife to cut the coconuts and realized that Brody was using it to notch out a couple long sticks. Elle wasn’t sure what he was doing until she saw him use the sticks to hook the handle of the first-aid kit after the water had boiled for ten minutes.

Mrs. Hardy was right. He was pretty damn smart. If someone had tried to grab the handle, it would have been so hot that they’d have likely jerked back and risked dumping all the freshly boiled water.

“Whatcha got?” he asked, catching her eye.

“Coconuts. Young ones that will have more milk. Mature ones that will have good meat inside.”

At her school, Father Taquero used a hammer and a nail to drill a hole through the coconut so that the sweet milk would drain out. She didn’t have a nail or a hammer, but she did have sharp eyebrow tweezers and a flat piece of wood to hit them with.

She got her tools and they worked as intended. She held the coconut over Pamela’s cup and the watery milk drained out. She held it up toward Pamela. “You first. You’re the one who had the cup.”

Pamela took a tentative sip. She pulled back. “That’s good,” she said.

“And full of things that are good for you,” Elle said. “You know people have survived a very long time with just coconuts.”

“I hope we don’t have to do that,” Pamela said, her voice low. “Can I ask you something?” she added.

“Of course.”

“You knew Dr. Donovan before this, didn’t you?”

Had Mrs. Hardy said something? She didn’t think so. Unfortunately, Pamela had definitely heard Brody’s first comment, too. “I did,” she admitted. “We knew each other many years ago but haven’t seen each other for more than a decade.”

“I think you were more than casual friends.”

Had Brody said something? “Why?” Elle asked.

“Because of the way he looks at you when you’re not looking.”

And damn her needy self, because she wanted to know more. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, dismissing the comment and turning away before Pamela could see the warmth flood her face.

Chapter Six

By evening, Mrs. Hardy’s internal battery had evidently recharged and she was talking like crazy, telling a very long story about some friends who’d been on a cruise ship that had mechanical trouble and the deplorable conditions that they’d had to endure until help came some five days later. At one point, when she was providing intimate details of one woman’s conversation with the ship’s purser, she said, “Well, you know Delores.”

Pamela stood up suddenly. “No. No, I don’t know Delores and I don’t know any of these other stupid people that you’re talking about and even more important, I don’t care. Just please shut up.”

Mrs. Hardy’s already wrinkled face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears.

Mr. Hardy shot an evil stare at Pamela but didn’t say anything. He just patted his wife’s hand.

“Bitch,” Captain Ramano said, almost under his breath.

Pamela turned on him. “This is your fault,” she yelled. “You and your shoddy little plane’s fault.”

Elle sucked in a breath, waiting for Captain Ramano to reveal exactly whose fault it really was. But the man simply leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, lady,” Angus said, anxious to protect his friend. “You’re alive because of Captain Ramano.”

Pamela whirled toward him. “We never should have been flying in that storm. I’m going to sue everyone involved. Every single person.”

Elle stood up. “Listen,” she said. “We’re all under a lot of stress. It’s easy to say or do things that probably aren’t in our best interest right now. We can’t let the situation get to us. We need each other. And we’re going to have to work at getting along in order to survive this.”

Pamela muttered something and Elle stared at her. Finally, Pamela waved a hand. “Fine,” she said. “I’m sorry,” she added to no one in particular.

For the moment, the tension appeared abated. Elle had done a good job, Brody thought, but it was only a matter of time before frustration mounted again. As the hours dragged on, even the most levelheaded would react to the strain.

He’d been so confident that they would be rescued today. Probably had been blindly optimistic in his approach. This was no
Field of Dreams
. He could build all the fires he wanted and still they might not come.

They were going to have to do more than simply wait. And for the past hour, an idea had been kicking around in his head. He would go for help. It was really the only answer.

He walked outside to add more wood to the fire. Between him and Elle, they had gathered enough wood during the day to keep the fire going for days. Food would be gone within a day, but thanks to Elle’s help, there would be water. Maybe not a lot but certainly enough to sustain life. Plus there was fruit, thanks to Elle helping them identify what they could and could not eat.

They couldn’t wait forever for someone to find the wreckage. He’d been a Boy Scout. Hell, a damn Eagle Scout. He knew how to tell directions by the sun and how to mark a trail so that he could lead someone back for the others.

He would leave at first light.

He heard a noise behind him. It was Elle. She came up and stood next to him at the fire. That surprised him. For most of the day, unless there was a need to communicate, they’d kept their distance from each other. Now neither of them said anything for a minute. Finally, she turned to him.

“I’m going to go for help,” she said.

No. That had been his line. “That’s crazy,” he said.

Her spine straightened. “Pardon me,” she said, her tone icy.

Was he doomed to always say the wrong thing around her? Maybe it was because she raised emotion in him that interfered with what was usually a consistent ability to moderate his comments and actions. “If anyone is going to go for help, it’s going to be me,” he said.

“Why?”

Because you’re a girl
clearly wasn’t the right answer. It wasn’t because he considered women to be the weaker sex. He was pretty sure that the women he served with were smarter and worked harder than most of his male counterparts. And physically, Elle was clearly in good shape and could probably handle the terrain.

But the jungle was full of danger. From all venues. Poisonous plants. Carnivorous animals. And when he’d been researching the area prior to his trip, he learned that the jungle was still home to a number of humans who might not necessarily be friendly.

Elle could be injured, attacked, even killed.

He would never forgive himself.

“Because I already made the decision that I’m going,” he said, knowing it was a lame excuse.

“You don’t know the jungle. I do.”

“You’re needed here. You’re the voice of reason. You can keep everybody calmed down.”

“There are injured here. You’re the only one who has the skills to treat them.”

“I can’t do anything else for either Angus or Captain Ramano. And I’m afraid that time is not Angus’s friend. I’m confident that he’s developing an infection. Every hour he goes without an antibiotic is an hour closer to losing that leg or even his life. I have to go and I have to go soon.”

“What’s your plan?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Walk until I find help.”

“Which direction?” she prodded.

“North. We’re south of the Amazon River. If I can get there, we have a good likelihood that there will be someone who can help us.”

“It’s too far. It would take you weeks to walk that distance.”

She was probably right. But it had seemed like the best option. “Then I guess I’ll head south, back toward Brasília.”

She shook her head. “We flew for about twenty minutes before we crashed. I asked Angus how fast we were flying and he said about 250 knots or roughly 300 miles per hour. Our destination was north, at about a thirty-degree angle. I think we’re roughly 130 miles north and just a little east of Brasília. If I’m right, that means we’re less than a two-day walk to Mantau. It’s a small village, due east, and I have a friend there who can help us. That’s why I’m the one who is leaving at first light.”

Her math made sense. Her confidence was admirable.

And her stubbornness was damn irritating. “But—”

“Brody,” she said, her voice softer. “You have always wanted to take care of things for everybody else. I suspect that makes you a great doctor. You care. But you don’t have to shoulder this burden alone. I can do it.”

He stared at her. So beautiful in the firelight. So determined to convince him that she was right. He could not let her go by herself. There was really only one solution.

It didn’t appeal to him as a particularly great one. “We’ll go together,” he said.

She stared at him.

And he thought for a moment that she might back down, that the idea of traipsing through the jungle, just the two of them, was enough to make her rethink her strategy. Thus far, they’d managed to coexist. But he could feel the energy swirling just below the surface and thought it was unlikely that she was oblivious of it. Like hot lava bubbling up through the cracks, there were buried emotions waiting to spew out, to scratch and rip at old scars that had taken forever to heal.

“Do you think that’s wise?” she asked finally.

“Hell, no,” he said.

He thought he caught a flicker of hurt in her pretty eyes but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was just the reflection of the fire.

“We’ll leave at first light,” she said.

“Fine,” he replied, gritting his teeth.

She turned and walked away without another word. He stood by the fire and listened to the sounds of the jungle. There were chirps and caws and the subtle rustle of leaves. And it was not a stretch to imagine that there were eyes watching him.

After several minutes he went back inside the plane. It was becoming an oppressively small space and the smell of damp air and human fear and frustration permeated it.

Mrs. Hardy was digging around in her ruined suitcase. She pulled out an envelope. When she opened the flap, there were dozens of snapshots inside.

“What are those?” Pamela asked, evidently trying to make amends.

“Pictures of my grandchildren,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I have seven of them. Ages three to seventeen.” She handed a photo to Pamela. “That’s all of us last Christmas.”

“Very nice,” Pamela said.

“Do you have children?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

Pamela frowned. “I have a very important job and I work sixty hours a week. I don’t have time for children.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hardy said, nodding. “How about you, Captain Ramano? Any children or grandchildren?”

“Two sons,” the man said. “Both married in the last couple of years but no grandchildren yet. You and Mr. Hardy are very fortunate.”

Given that the captain had been mostly uncommunicative, Brody was surprised that he’d tacked on the last sentiment. He prepared himself for the inevitable question given that Mrs. Hardy seemed determined to work her way around the small space.
No wife, no children.
Four words. That’s all he had to say. Didn’t have to offer up any excuses, as Pamela had felt inclined to do. Certainly wasn’t going to admit that on more than one occasion he’d thought about how different his life might be if he and Elle had gotten married. They might have a houseful of kids by now.

That would be nice. He’d been an only child growing up and had wished for siblings. Maybe that was why Ethan and Mack had been so important. Brothers. Just not the same bloodline.

Mrs. Hardy turned to Elle. “What about you, dear? Do you have children?”

He thought Elle hesitated just a moment too long. Then she offered up a sad smile. “I do. Mia. She’s eleven.”

Brody could feel the blood rush to his head. She had a child?

She’d said she never married.

Yet she’d loved some man enough to carry his child.

“Do you have a picture of her?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

His head was buzzing so loud that he didn’t hear Elle’s response. But she pulled her phone out of her backpack and turned it on. Within seconds she was handing it to Mrs. Hardy.

“Oh, she’s lovely,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“Thank you,” Elle said. “She’s very sweet.”

Mrs. Hardy gave the phone to her husband, who nodded appropriately and then, at Mrs. Hardy’s urging, handed the phone to Pamela.

And Brody had to practically sit on his damn hands to keep from reaching out. Why the hell did he care? She had a child. What difference did it make?

He didn’t know. But it did.

Eleven? She certainly hadn’t wasted any time.

“Almost a teenager,” Pamela said, when she looked at the phone. “They say those are the toughest years.”

Elle smiled and her eyes filled with tears. “She can hardly wait to be thirteen. It’s all she talks about. She’s frustrated that she has to be twelve first.”

Pamela handed the phone to Captain Ramano. He looked at it, then at Elle. “She go to that school you teach at?” he asked.

It was odd but Brody thought Elle’s chin jerked up, as if the question had surprised her. She nodded. “Yes, she does.”

Brody couldn’t stand another minute. He got up, opened the plane door and walked outside into the dark night.

Had she not loved the father enough to marry him? Had she left him, too?

Had he not wanted her or the child?

Idiot.

Hell. His thoughts were bouncing around, making his head ache. He walked over and stood next to the fire that he’d fed all day and would feed again several times during the night.

The smoke burned his eyes.

Off in the distance, he heard the howl of something wild. He felt a bit like making the same noise.

He’d spent years missing her like crazy and she’d been humming along, living life to the fullest. Meeting a guy. Having his baby.

Suddenly it was May 10 and he was standing by the mailbox in his bare feet all over again. The pain was intense.

When she told him that she’d never married, he’d told himself it didn’t matter one way or the other. He was over her. Had been over her for a long time.

Even though he’d been assigned to a military post in the Middle East for long stretches, he’d also been stateside a number of times over the years. Colleagues and family friends had fixed him up. The women had been nice.

He’d even slept with a couple of them.

He was over her.

But that didn’t stop him from knowing that there was a big difference between having a physical relationship with somebody, which was really just biology, and having the connection of a child.

She might not have married but she’d committed herself in an even more important way. To someone else.

His gut hurt and it wasn’t from eating fresh coconut.

When the hell was he going to stop being stupid over Elle Vollman?