When Tomorrow Comes (2 page)

The glare of headlights blinded Cait as she stepped carefully from the plane to the ground. A soft layer of dust beneath her feet told her it was going to be a dirty, grimy job.

“Señora Monahan! Welcome, welcome. I am Jorge Campos, site superintendent for the Miron Corporation.” The voice came from a dark human shape approaching from the direction of the headlights. Señor Campos emerged from the shadows and pressed a wet kiss to her hand. She withdrew it quickly.

“Thank you, Señor Campos.”

“Please, come right this way. Pedro will get your bags. Step into my car and we’ll be underway. I’m sure you’re very tired from your long trip. I trust it was a pleasant flight?”

Campos’s rounded features struck Cait as almost moon-like. His heavy, droopy eyelids made him look as if he were asleep. He was half a head shorter than Cait and looked ill at ease. “The flight was fine,” she said, sliding into the sedan and straining to see beyond the lights, to the project. The third shift was working, and under the harsh glare of portable light units, she could detect bulldozers and cranes working in a cacophony of sound. The project must be near the river, she thought, suddenly anxious to explore her new territory.

Campos leaped in on the passenger’s side and rapidly gave orders in Spanish to Pedro, who stowed the bags in the trunk and took the driver’s seat. They sped down the dirt runway.

“We have been anxiously awaiting your arrival, Señora Monahan,” Campos continued. “When Señor Goodell informed us you were a woman, we were even more pleased.”

I’ll bet
, Cait thought, gripping the seat and using her left arm as a cushion against the bumping, swaying vehicle. “I’m sure it was a surprise,” she answered drily.

“But he never said it would be a beautiful woman! This is double luck for us.”

Now Cait knew he was being deceptive, and fixed a tight smile on her lips. At least she could rely on Dominic to be truthful—if blunt. She sighed. Maybe Campos was just nervous.

“You Argentinians are very complimentary,” she said in way of thanks.

“Camp Two barracks is only six kilometers away, Señora. Pedro has gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure your quarters are clean, but unfortunately Patagonia can sometimes be a dusty place. You will have a two-room cottage that is situated near the rest of the supervisory-personnel barracks.”

“Don’t apologize for the dirt, Señor Campos. I’m used to living in harsh conditions, as I’m sure you are.”

Maybe she was overly tired, but she had a sudden desire to laugh outright at Campos’s use of the word “
cottage.
” It was sure to be a prefab modular structure covered with metal sheeting. She could picture it now—hastily assembled housing put together by a subcontractor, with a metal folding bed and single light fixture suspended from the ceiling. Electricity was hard to come by at most construction sites and was supplied by diesel generators.

“I’m grateful to you for sending Señor Tobbar to get me,” Cait commented. “I understand he was pulled away from his work.”

Campos shrugged eloquently. Compared to well-muscled Dominic Tobbar, he looked skinny. “I was planning on coming, but unfortunately I was tied up in a meeting with the site procurement manager.” He smiled. “Pay no attention to Tobbar, Señora. He is constantly griping about anything that he does not want to do.” Campos waved his hand in emphasis.

“I see,” she murmured. So maybe her first impression of Dominic Tobbar had been right—a misfit who didn’t get along with management even though he was part of the supervisory team who ran this project. She tucked away Campos’s reaction along with her own evaluation. Sooner or later, Dominic’s true nature would become clear to her. If he was a troublemaker, she’d get rid of him, or anyone else who might be slowing the project down.

The sedan pulled to a halt in front of a small modular structure, and Pedro leaped out. “It isn’t much, Señora,” he said, opening the door for her with an apologetic smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

To Cait’s delight, a floor lamp had been installed in one corner. It burned feebly when Pedro flipped the switch, and seemed to soften the glare from the ceiling fixture. The plywood walls were barren, and a cot stood in the far corner, with several green blankets folded neatly at the foot. Pedro set her bags down carefully, grinning broadly, his crooked teeth white against his reddish skin. He took off his hard hat and bowed.

“It eez
bueno
to have you, Señora,” he said.

Cait smiled warmly and touched his shoulder. “
Muchas gracias,
Pedro,” she murmured. The Spanish rolled off her tongue in a stilted and unfamiliar manner. She would have to bone up on it in a hurry if she wanted to communicate effectively with everyone.

Pedro’s weathered features lit with pleasure. Bowing again, he scurried out. Campos laughed. “I’ve scheduled a meeting at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m sure you want to catch up on your sleep before starting.”

Cait dropped her purse on the cot. “On the contrary, Señor Campos, I want to see you at my office at eight o’clock sharp, and I expect a general meeting of all supervisory personnel to be called for eight-thirty. I don’t want anyone missing or tardy. Is that understood?”

Campos’s smile vanished. His black eyes became hooded as he stared up at her. “You realize it is 2:09 a.m. right now?” he said.

She nodded. “Quite aware of it. Have a driver pick me up at six o’clock, will you? Good night.”

Cait awoke with a start. Her watch read five-thirty. The chill in the shack was a stark contrast to the wet humidity of Indonesia. Fumbling for her jeans, she slipped them on and reached for a long-sleeved khaki shirt, then stepped outside into the clear morning air.

She was facing east, where the orange sky was growing brighter by the minute. Soon the sun would lift its fiery edge above the gray hills.

Her ears picked up the sounds of working bulldozers and cranes, and she walked around the corner, searching for the source of the welcome noise. Her gaze focused on a distant green strip of land, which surrounded the Rio Colorado. Harsh scars were evident where the earth had been removed to make an access road paralleling the pipeline. Somewhere beyond the pipe-laying operation was the bridge-working area. As soon as the meeting was over, she would check its progress.

The thought of the bridge brought back an immediate and physical sensation of Dominic Tobbar. Turning, Cait wondered if he had gotten some sleep or if he had gone back to work on the bridge. She made a wry face, and went inside. Why did Dominic seem to stay on her mind?

Brushing her hair back, she knotted it into a chignon at the nape of her slender neck. She dug into her cosmetic bag for lip balm, wanting to discourage the imminent chapping that always took place in a desert environment. Holding up a small mirror, she was pleased with the way she looked. Her eyes were wide and alert, filled with excitement.

Pedro arrived at exactly six. He raced around the vehicle and opened the door with a flourish. Cait thanked him and slid in. There was a white Brentworth hard hat on the seat, with the words “
Project Superintendent Monahan
” on it. Pedro climbed in and motioned for her to take it.

“Eez for you, Señora. I make it. You like?”

Cait set the hard hat on her head. It fit perfectly, and she felt very much at home wearing it. “I like very much, Pedro. Let’s go to the office now, shall we?”

“
Bueno. Si, si.
”

The six-kilometer drive was brutal. A column of dust rose fifteen feet in the air behind the pickup truck as Pedro sped toward their destination. They wove around the construction buildings until they finally arrived at a complex of six office trailers. Cait thanked Pedro and climbed up a set of rickety wooden stairs into the mobile office.

Taking off the hard hat, Cait set it on her desk and ran a finger across the top. A streak of fine dust coated her hand, and she wiped it off on her jeans. All the windows were opened and screened, indicating the air-conditioning unit was not working. She grinned, leaned against the desk and folded her arms across her chest.

By the time Campos arrived, she was ensconced behind her desk, reading through reports from each of the site supervisors.

“Señora Monahan—I didn’t realize you’d be here so early,” he began, taking off his hard hat.

She smiled perfunctorily, noticing that he wore starched, pressed khakis. He looked quite dapper and tailored, and she was pleased that he took trouble with his appearance. “I get up with the birds,” she told him. “There’s hot coffee over there, if you want some.”

Campos looked at the pot and touched his thin black mustache. “Uh…no, thank you, Señora. We Argentinians drink maté instead of coffee.” He offered a weak smile of apology, went to the cupboard below the pot and drew out a heating element and some loose green tea.

“Your national drink?” she inquired.

“Very much so. You must try it soon.” He tinkered nervously with the tea, dropped the plastic spoon twice and glanced up.

“This is a…uh…rare privilege to work with a woman, Señora. I…I mean, we have never had the opportunity…”

She set the report down. “Please, Señor Campos, relax. This is a new experience for me, too. I’ve never worked in South America. My Spanish is extremely rusty, and I don’t know any Italian or French. So who is at a worse disadvantage here?”

Campos gave a slight shrug and drew a wooden chair opposite her desk. “Do you always have the right words to say, Señora? Even the savage jaguar would purr beneath your diplomacy.” He smiled broadly and lifted his cup in a toast.

Cait nodded, pursing her lips. The only jaguar she knew was a tall, dark-haired civil engineer who didn’t cool down under any number of diplomatic strokes.

She was curious as to what did contain Dominic Tobbar. He was a willful warrior out to fight his own personal wars, it would seem. She forced him from her mind, concentrating instead on Campos, who had been sipping his tea cautiously.

“Tell me, Señor Campos—”

“
Por favor.
Please, call me Jorge,” he insisted.

“Very well, Jorge. Give me your opinion of why this project is so far behind schedule.”

His black brows drew downward in thought. “I mean no insult, Señora Monahan, but Hank—Señor Parker—was a very sick man for a long time. He was ailing for three months before he had his heart attack, and toward the end, he was putting in six-hour days.”

Cait nodded. “Instead of the usual twelve to sixteen,” she returned grimly.

“Si. Our business is not measured in hours, but days and contracts. Anyway, one month before the attack, he was in perhaps two or three hours daily and trying to run it from his quarters. It just didn’t work.”

She toyed absently with a pencil, keeping her eyes fixed on him. “Why didn’t you alert Brentworth of the problem?”

“Hank was in charge. I could only express my view, as I am still bound to follow his orders. My company is supplying men and materials. Project management is supplied by Brentworth.”

Cait sat back, rocking thoughtfully in her chair. A good supervisor, no matter what company he worked for, would have done something much sooner. Perhaps Campos was as ineffective as he looked. She frowned. Still, a man—or a woman—didn’t get to be site supervisor by lying on his backside, getting a suntan. She sat back down with a thump.

“There has to be something else, Jorge…”

The Argentine set the cup down heavily and nodded. “
Sif,
there is. Not a something but a someone, Señora.”

Cait cocked her head to one side, listening intently. “Oh? A Brentworth official?”

“No. Unfortunately, one of our people. Dominic Tobbar.”

“Go on,” she coaxed, all her senses alert.

Campos rose, rubbing his mustache in an irritated manner. “He is amoral, Señora. He works only for his part of the project and cares nothing for the rest of the schedule. His work gangs are continually fighting with other groups of men at the bridge site. There are Miron’s rules and then there are Tobbar’s rules. I’ve been completely stifled by the agitation he has caused between the labor unions. He treats his work gangs differently than the other laborers are treated, and then a furor arises. At least once every day I get called down there to mediate between the bickering sides.” Campos chewed on his thin lower lip, his expression mirroring his frustration.

Cait strode over to the personnel cabinet and went through it until she found a file marked Tobbar. She scanned the information. “He has impeccable records, Jorge.” She flipped through to another series. “Recommendations from other projects via Miron officials.” Frowning, she dug deeper, trying to read the Spanish. “Am I wrong, or are there reprimands in here that I’m not seeing?”

“No, Señora, no reprimands…until now.”

She closed the file. “Why now?”

Campos turned, studying her. “I’m sure you’ve seen it before, Señora. A bright young engineer becomes the darling of a company and is spoiled by a string of successes. When he finally gets a project that is far beyond his experience and capability, he blames everyone else for a failing schedule.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them come and go,” she agreed. But somehow Dominic Tobbar did not strike her in that light. He was abrupt and arrogant but not, she felt, sloppy or ineffective. Why would he be working long hours if he didn’t care? “Anything else?” she prodded Campos stubbornly.

The Argentine supervisor frowned also. “What you can’t possibly know is that the Tobbar name in Argentina is one of the oldest and most highly respected. Dominic is the only son and has been given everything. He is in a very embarrassing situation presently, because of the scheduling. He helped cause it, by flaunting union rules, and work stoppages have been the result. At this point, he would willingly throw the blame elsewhere, because of his stature in society, Señora. One who comes from such an old family must keep up appearances.”

“I see,” Cait murmured, tapping her fingers on top of the file, deep in thought. “A spoiled rich boy who can’t take it when the going gets tough?”