follow.
Kayla met Cal’s eyes.
“Stay here,” he said.
“No way!”
“I have no idea what this man wants from us.”
“Neither do I—and that’s exactly why I want to go talk to him. This is why we came to San Salustiano, Cal. Maybe this guy has some information about Liam.”
“Then why would he approach us on the beach, where everyone can see us talking together?”
“He told me he comes here all the time,” Kayla told him, “to talk to the tourists. What better place to contact us?”
Vásquez had stopped, and he stood watching them, waiting for them to catch up.
Kayla started toward him, but Cal caught her wrist. “Stay close to me,” he whispered.
Vásquez looked out over the ocean, taking a drink from his can of soda. “It’s amazing such a beautiful island should be the grounds for such a long and bloody battle,” he mused. “Did you know that three years ago, during the worst of the fighting, a skirmish was fought right here, on this very spot?”
Cal shook his head. “No, I didn’t know that. There was no mention of that in anything I’ve read.”
“Often times the most fascinating of the stories are kept out of the newspapers and history books,” Vásquez said. He turned toward them suddenly. “I know who you are and why you are here. I am given the names of people passing through customs, and Bartlett sounded familiar. I had the opportunity to access government computers earlier this afternoon, and sure enough, two years ago, a young American reporter named William Bartlett was killed in a terrorist explosion outside of Puerto Norte. It was a terrible tragedy.” He took a deep breath. “However, being a disbeliever in coincidence, I checked the files more carefully and found that yes, William did have an older brother, Calvin Bartlett, who is, of course, you.”
Kayla could see the tension in Cal’s shoulders and neck, and she couldn’t keep from reaching out and lightly squeezing his hand. He wasn’t alone and she wanted him to remember that. As if acknowledging her silent message, he gently squeezed her hand too.
“In my capacity as a government official, I should scold you soundly for failing to let the authorities know that you came to San Salustiano to investigate your brother’s death,” Vásquez continued. “However, as a member of the Council of Tourism, I can appreciate your silence. The last thing
I
want is newspaper reporters and TV crews reminding the public that Americans were killed here in the recent past. That is why I have not mentioned your identity to anyone else.
“If you will allow me, I will assist you in your search for the truth. In a day or so I will escort you both to the place where the bus was bombed—where your brother lost his life,” Vásquez promised them. “The ruins of the bus have been left there as a monument to the dead. It will take me at least a day to get permission to travel into that area of the country, but if you will be patient, you will find such a visit helpful in understanding why the San Salustiano officials were unable to return your brother’s remains.”
“And what about the rumors that Liam was never even on that bus?” Cal asked quietly.
Vásquez seemed surprised. “I have not heard of such rumors.”
Kayla couldn’t believe that. She let her incredulousness show in her voice. “You’ve never heard of the legendary Americano who escaped from one of the prison camps in the mountains?”
The San Salustiano man took another long sip of his soda, then crushed the empty can in his hand. “I had heard talk of a mercenary American hired to fight with the opposition forces—a man well trusted and respected by the rebels. You honestly believe William Bartlett could be this man?”
“We don’t know what to believe or who to trust,” Kayla told him.
“If William Bartlett
is
still alive,” Vásquez said as if thinking aloud, “and if he is this man so beloved by the opposition forces, then he could well
Kayla met Cal’s eyes.
“Stay here,” he said.
“No way!”
“I have no idea what this man wants from us.”
“Neither do I—and that’s exactly why I want to go talk to him. This is why we came to San Salustiano, Cal. Maybe this guy has some information about Liam.”
“Then why would he approach us on the beach, where everyone can see us talking together?”
“He told me he comes here all the time,” Kayla told him, “to talk to the tourists. What better place to contact us?”
Vásquez had stopped, and he stood watching them, waiting for them to catch up.
Kayla started toward him, but Cal caught her wrist. “Stay close to me,” he whispered.
Vásquez looked out over the ocean, taking a drink from his can of soda. “It’s amazing such a beautiful island should be the grounds for such a long and bloody battle,” he mused. “Did you know that three years ago, during the worst of the fighting, a skirmish was fought right here, on this very spot?”
Cal shook his head. “No, I didn’t know that. There was no mention of that in anything I’ve read.”
“Often times the most fascinating of the stories are kept out of the newspapers and history books,” Vásquez said. He turned toward them suddenly. “I know who you are and why you are here. I am given the names of people passing through customs, and Bartlett sounded familiar. I had the opportunity to access government computers earlier this afternoon, and sure enough, two years ago, a young American reporter named William Bartlett was killed in a terrorist explosion outside of Puerto Norte. It was a terrible tragedy.” He took a deep breath. “However, being a disbeliever in coincidence, I checked the files more carefully and found that yes, William did have an older brother, Calvin Bartlett, who is, of course, you.”
Kayla could see the tension in Cal’s shoulders and neck, and she couldn’t keep from reaching out and lightly squeezing his hand. He wasn’t alone and she wanted him to remember that. As if acknowledging her silent message, he gently squeezed her hand too.
“In my capacity as a government official, I should scold you soundly for failing to let the authorities know that you came to San Salustiano to investigate your brother’s death,” Vásquez continued. “However, as a member of the Council of Tourism, I can appreciate your silence. The last thing
I
want is newspaper reporters and TV crews reminding the public that Americans were killed here in the recent past. That is why I have not mentioned your identity to anyone else.
“If you will allow me, I will assist you in your search for the truth. In a day or so I will escort you both to the place where the bus was bombed—where your brother lost his life,” Vásquez promised them. “The ruins of the bus have been left there as a monument to the dead. It will take me at least a day to get permission to travel into that area of the country, but if you will be patient, you will find such a visit helpful in understanding why the San Salustiano officials were unable to return your brother’s remains.”
“And what about the rumors that Liam was never even on that bus?” Cal asked quietly.
Vásquez seemed surprised. “I have not heard of such rumors.”
Kayla couldn’t believe that. She let her incredulousness show in her voice. “You’ve never heard of the legendary Americano who escaped from one of the prison camps in the mountains?”
The San Salustiano man took another long sip of his soda, then crushed the empty can in his hand. “I had heard talk of a mercenary American hired to fight with the opposition forces—a man well trusted and respected by the rebels. You honestly believe William Bartlett could be this man?”
“We don’t know what to believe or who to trust,” Kayla told him.
“If William Bartlett
is
still alive,” Vásquez said as if thinking aloud, “and if he is this man so beloved by the opposition forces, then he could well
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