Beneath a Southern Sky Read online

  He mumbled, questioning, under his breath, but he headed back to the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later, they were enjoying roast beef and mashed potatoes, sweet corn, and tangy three-bean salad—all Cole’s favorites. He ate the last bite of his buttered crescent roll, leaned across the corner of the table, and put a finger under Daria’s chin. “Now would you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “Not until you’ve had your dessert.” She had managed to keep her secret all through dinner and was thoroughly enjoying the buildup.

  “Daria, come on! I am dying of curiosity!”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Even more than I want raspberry cheesecake.”

  “That much, huh?”

  He nodded, waiting.

  She took his hands in hers. “This, my dearest darling,” she said, deliberately drawing out the suspense, “is to celebrate the fact that by this time next year there will be another little set of feet pitter-pattering on these floors.”

  He looked at her mutely, apparently uncomprehending.

  She laughed at the dumbstruck expression pasted on his face. “We are going to have a baby, silly!”

  “What?”

  She waited for him to whoop and holler, but he obviously was not catching on. “Cole, do I have to draw you a picture? I’m pregnant, honey!”

  “Daria? No! You’re not…”

  Whatever she had expected to see in his eyes, it wasn’t this gleam of fear, this bizarre, grim reaction to the wonderful news she’d just given him.

  “Cole? Aren’t you happy? I thought you’d be happy. Honey?”

  He pushed his chair back from the table and got up, pacing, rubbing his forehead as though her news had given him an excruciating headache.

  She rose and went to him, frantic now to know why he seemed so adverse to the wonderful news. She put a hand on his back and was alarmed to find that he was trembling. “Cole! What’s wrong?”

  “Sit down, Daria. We need to talk.”

  Her heart began to bang in her chest. What was going on? What was wrong with him?

  Like a robot, he returned to the table and sat down, his face an expressionless mask. He put his head in his hands and scrubbed his face, sighing again and again as though he was trying to catch his breath.

  “Cole? Please, what is it?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you, Daria. I-I haven’t told you everything—”

  “What are you talking about, Cole? Please, you’re scaring me.”

  “Daria, you…you don’t know everything…about Bridgette …about how she died.” He sighed again and then turned to look her full in the face.

  “Bridgette had—we had a baby together, Daria.” He swallowed hard. “We lost him—a little boy. He was stillborn, the cord got wrapped around his neck.”

  Daria was stunned, and tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, Cole. How terrible!”

  “We named him Carson. We held him in our arms, and then we buried him two days later. I don’t even have a picture of him.” He recited the information as though he were reading it from a newspaper, as though it had nothing to do with him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this, Cole?” In spite of the deep sorrow she felt at his obvious grief, she was shocked and angry that he had kept it from her. Cole had been a father! He’d had a little boy! How could she not have known this about him? How could he have failed to tell her something of this magnitude before? What other secrets had he kept from her? And yet her heart was broken, for she knew how deeply he must have felt this sorrow, how great the pain he endured must have been.

  “I should have told you, Daria. God knows I should have.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Her voice sounded cold and unsympathetic, but she felt betrayed, not sure if she even knew this man anymore.

  “I was afraid. I was afraid it would be more than you could accept. It was a terrible time in our lives. Bridgette had been so happy, so looking forward to the birth. She took the baby’s death really hard—understandably. But she couldn’t seem to get over it, Daria. Months went by, and she still couldn’t even function. She just checked out. She started hating the doctors, hating God… After a while I think she started hating me, blaming me. And maybe she was right to blame me.”

  He paused, and Daria could see that he was trying to gain control over his emotions. She waited in silence for him to go on, her mind racing.

  Finally he told her, “When Bridgette went into labor, she wanted to stay home as long as possible. Her pregnancy had been an easy one and, after all, I was the great Dr. Hunter.” He spat out a mirthless laugh. “I thought I knew so much, but I didn’t even see the signs. Surely they were there. I should have gotten her to the hospital. They said if we’d come in sooner and gotten her on a monitor they might have discovered that he was…that he was strangling, before it was too late.”

  A part of Daria longed to go to him, to put her arms around him and give him her understanding and comfort. But she couldn’t seem to get around the wall of his duplicity, a wall he’d built with his own lies. Why had he kept this from her? This deepest sorrow of his life. And one that had everything to do with Bridgette’s suicide.

  She asked him again, “Why, Cole? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Daria. I meant to tell you. I tried several times, I truly did. But something always interrupted. And then I convinced myself that the time wasn’t right. I loved you so much I couldn’t face losing you. It’s not an excuse, Daria, but it’s the only true thing I can tell you.”

  What he had told her—that he’d had an infant son, that he’d lost not only his wife, but a child as well—completely changed the picture she had carried of him.

  “Cole, I’m so sorry. But why? Couldn’t you trust me?”

  “I don’t know what else to say, Daria.”

  “Then neither do I.” She felt dead inside. This evening that should have been the happiest in their lives had taken a macabre turn, had become a nightmare. Suddenly she lashed out, not willing to accept the silence between them now. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand? Did you think I couldn’t empathize with you? What?”

  Now he glared at her, returning anger for anger. “If I had been half a husband, Bridgette would be alive today, Daria! Do you understand that? Can’t you see that? Her doctor said she was probably suffering from serious postpartum depression, said that was why she couldn’t seem to get over it. They gave her some medication, but she wouldn’t take it. And I didn’t force her. I hated her weakness. I hated that she couldn’t handle this, that she shut me out. But I should have seen what was happening. I should have realized that my wife needed more help than I was giving her.”

  My wife. The words cut into Daria like a knife, but she didn’t have time to dwell on the ache because Cole’s next words brought her to her senses.

  “It wasn’t enough that I killed my own son! Bridgette died because I let her die! A blind man should have been able to see that she wasn’t getting any better. But I just kept waiting and waiting, thinking surely tomorrow she would be a little better. And then one day there weren’t any tomorrows left. I think I know in my heart that her death was no accident. And it’s my fault, Daria! Would you have married me knowing that? Would you have trusted me with Natalie? Do you trust me now to help you through this pregnancy?” His voice broke, and his shoulders heaved silently.

  “Cole.” She pushed away from the table and went to him, kneeling in front of his chair. “Oh, Cole. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have stopped her. And how could you have known about the baby? It wasn’t your fault! None of it! Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He fell into her arms and wept, and she felt the anger drain from her heart. “Cole, there’s nothing you could tell me that would keep me from loving you. Nothing! We have to be honest with each other. We have to trust each other.”

  He sat upright and took her hands in his. “How can you trust me after w
hat I’ve just told you?”

  “Cole, you shouldn’t have kept it from me. That was wrong. But it’s in the past now. I think you’re taking blame where it doesn’t belong—”

  “Daria, I placed this all before the Lord a long time ago. I know he’s forgiven me, but I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself. No, I didn’t willfully murder my family, but are they any less dead because my mistakes were unintentional? I didn’t deserve to find you. I certainly didn’t deserve Nattie, but when God put you both in my life, I felt as though it was his way of telling me that I truly was forgiven. But I-I must not have believed it completely, because I was afraid. I was flat out terrified to tell you the truth about myself. I should have known you’d understand. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t face losing someone I loved again.” He spoke as though he were realizing it himself for the first time.

  Daria grasped his hands tighter. “Cole, we’re going to have a baby. This should be the happiest time of our lives.”

  “Daria, I’m too afraid to be happy about this. What if something goes wrong? I can’t face losing you, losing another baby. And if that happens, I’ll lose Nattie, too.”

  She stroked his head the way she would have comforted a frightened little boy. “No Cole, that’s not going to happen. You would never lose Nattie. Nothing is going to happen. I’m fine.” She took his hand and placed it over her belly, covering it with her own. “This baby will be fine. Everything will turn out fine, you’ll see.”

  He took her face in his hands, and his voice was fierce when he told her, “I love you, Daria. What would I do without you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “You’ll never have to find that out. Never.”

  Twenty-Two

  His eyes were open, but he thought he must surely be dreaming. The voices he heard were speaking English—crisp, unaccented American English. After all this time, it was a sound so strange it almost sounded like a foreign tongue to his ears.

  There were at least two of them—deep, masculine voices—and they were shouting.

  “Show us where it is now, or I’ll blow your head off!”

  Nate winced as the man let out a string of profanities. These were not the first words of his native language he’d hoped to hear. He threw off the dirty, coarse cloth that had covered him and sat up on the hard dirt floor of the hut. Peering through the thin slivers of space between the bamboo and grasses that made up his prison, he cocked his head to one side, straining to hear the rest of the exchange.

  The thick leaves of a palm tree blocked Nate’s view of the Americans, but he could clearly see the face of the man called Juan Mocoa. He was on his knees before the Americans, and, judging by the tension in his jaw and the raw fear in his eyes, his life was at stake.

  “Please, no. I tell you where it is, Captain,” Mocoa squealed. “I give it back. I give it all back, Captain.”

  Nate was stunned to hear Mocoa plead for his life in fluent English. He had always been suspicious of Juan Mocoa, for the man seemed to have a vested interest in Nate’s continued imprisonment—though why, Nate could only guess. Now, hearing him speak English, his suspicions were heightened.

  If these men were enemies of Mocoa, perhaps, Nate thought, they could help him escape. Then, taking a chance, he shouted at the top of his lungs in English, “Hey! Help me out here! Hey!” His heart was beating so hard in his chest that it frightened him, yet he felt stronger than he had in weeks.

  Still peeking through the wall of his hut, he watched one of the Americans step into view and walk toward the sound of his voice, eyes darting to and fro.

  “Who said that?” the American shouted. “Where are you, man?”

  Even from his inferior vantage point, Nate could see Juan Mocoa’s mind working, plotting to use this interruption to his advantage. But the other American, the one Mocoa called Captain, moved in to stand over him, gun ready, while his partner walked cautiously toward the sound of Nate’s voice.

  “Show yourself!” the American bellowed.

  Nate struggled to his feet and rattled the door of the hut, afraid to let himself realize how close he might be to freedom. “Here! I’m over here!”

  The American turned his rifle on the young native guard who had shrunk down outside Nate’s door as soon as he heard the commotion.

  “Open the door,” the American ordered, gesturing roughly with his gun. The youth looked to Juan Mocoa, as if seeking permission. Then, realizing that Mocoa was in no position to give orders, he looked back to the gun and complied, struggling briefly with the vine ropes that served as a lock.

  Within seconds Nate was standing before a red-bearded, blue-eyed American.

  “Who are you?” the man demanded.

  Nate almost couldn’t speak over the lump in his throat. “Nathan Camfield. Dr. Nathan Camfield. I’m a missionary to the Timoné village two days downriver.” Now the words poured out in a rush. “I’ve been held captive here for… What’s the date?”

  The man looked at the bulky watch he was wearing. “It’s the sixth.”

  “No, what month?”

  The American scratched his beard. “How long have you been here, man?”

  “I don’t know. I-I’ve lost track. It was late July when I came.”

  “July? Are you sure? It’s April.”

  Had he been here less than a year? It seemed much longer, a lifetime. “My wife… I left her at Timoné. Can you take me there?”

  “Briggs!” he shouted at the man guarding Juan Mocoa. “We’ve got a problem!”

  The two men conferred quietly while Nate stood outside his prison hut. Excitement rose in him as he thought of the possibility that these men might be his way out. He guessed—by their coarse language and the fact that they had business with the likes of Juan Mocoa—that they were involved in the lucrative drug trafficking that thrived in the area, but surely their sense of decency would persuade them to help a fellow American.

  From their coded conversation Nate surmised that Juan Mocoa had been employed as a courier for their business. Mocoa’s greed had done him in. He had apparently tried to get a piece of the action for himself, and now, in spite of giving up the location of his secret cache, it seemed they didn’t forgive easily.

  Nate watched them carefully, knowing that Juan Mocoa’s fate might determine his own. Red Beard started for the river and motioned for Nate to follow him. But before he had taken ten steps, Nate heard the sickening sound of a gunshot fired at close range.

  Three hours later, Nate sat in a small flat boat, the putt-putt-putt of the outboard motor the sweetest music his ears had ever heard. He leaned against the filthy canvas tarp at the back of the boat, trying not to think about the heavy bundles the tarp concealed. He might be dreaming, yet never had his dreams conjectured fleeing Chicoro on a boat loaded with cocaine and piloted by drug traffickers. If this was real—and he prayed it was—God did indeed work in mysterious ways.

  Juan Mocoa had paid a traitor’s price and now lay rotting on the floor of the rain forest. But the fact that Nate was now on-board this boat seemed to indicate that the Americans had no intention of harming him. Still he understood that his passage with them depended on his silence.

  He remembered the way Mocoa had kept his guards well supplied with cigarettes and rum, and he speculated on Juan Mocoa’s motivation to keep him captive in Chicoro. Perhaps because Nate was an American, Mocoa worried that he was sympathetic to the cartel Mocoa had defrauded, the one that now provided Nate passage on this boat. Or perhaps Mocoa simply feared that if Nathan were released, he would report him to the national authorities and ruin his successful little private enterprise.

  His mind reeled with all that had happened, and confusion spun a web around his brain. Perhaps he would never know exactly why he had been held here. And yet, as this place of his captivity faded into the distance, one fact gave him peace, one truth made sense of the senseless. He had remained faithful. And he had shared the object of that faith with every villager who had
come near his humble prison. Every guard, every youth who delivered a gourd of water or a rice-filled leaf to his hut had heard the name of Jesus. In spite of the language barrier, he had made every effort to point them to the one, true God Almighty. Perhaps that had been God’s purpose in this all along.

  As the boat entered the wide part of the river and picked up speed, Nathan began to tremble. A spate of adrenaline and renewed hope coursed through his veins, but he was weak from the extended lack of exercise and proper nutrition and from the ongoing effects of the injuries he had suffered in the fire. As a doctor, he recognized that his health was in a gravely compromised state. He felt panic rising within him at the thought of Daria in captivity. Could she have survived the type of imprisonment he had endured? His mind simply could not sort through all the possibilities.

  In the front of the boat, the two Americans shouted back and forth over the drone of the outboard motor, discussing the weather conditions and planning their route. The man called Captain filled out some sort of log, stating the date and the year aloud.

  Nathan leaned forward. Surely he hadn’t heard the man correctly. “What did you say today’s date was?” Nathan asked, his heart pounding.

  “April sixth.”

  “No—I mean, the year.”

  Captain repeated the date.

  He had heard correctly.

  Red Beard looked at his map again and turned to shout back to Nathan. “Looks like Timoné is the wrong direction, Camfield, but if you’re not in a big hurry, we can get you to Bogotá.”

  Nathan almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “No rush,” he told them, still wrestling to grasp the man’s matter-of-fact mention of the year—and the stunning realization that he had been in captivity for more than two and a half years.

  ARA:

  THE ALTAR

  Twenty-Three

  Daria loaded the last of the lunch dishes in the dishwasher and, still drying her hands on a towel, wandered into the living room where Cole was roughhousing with Natalie.