Peter's Return. Cynthia Cooke

you to help my son.” He sat on one of the long leather sofas, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “If I may get to the point, my son, Marcos, is very sick. I’m afraid he’s dying. I need your help to make his last days as comfortable for him as possible.”

      Emily took a deep breath and sat in a chair nearby.

      “He is my only child,” Baltasar continued. “I love him greatly and can’t stand to see him suffer.”

      The pain widening his eyes gave Emily’s heart an uncomfortable squeeze. Against her will, she softened toward the man. But only a little.

      “I will make it worth your while,” he said with a great deal of sincerity.

      Emily couldn’t help wondering how much of it was real. He was obviously a man who knew what he wanted and exactly how to get it. “Of course we can help your son,” she responded, trying to maintain a professional distance. “That’s why Dr. Fletcher and I came here, to help the children.”

      He gave her a warm smile.

      “But,” she added, and couldn’t help cringing as his smile stiffened. “As beautiful as your estate is, we’d prefer to help your son at the clinic in Santa Maria de Flores.”

      “I’m afraid Marcos can’t be moved,” Baltasar said, standing. “Now, please, come and meet my son.”

      His gaze slid over her, sizing her up. She couldn’t say she liked it.

      “If you don’t mind, Mr. Escalante,” Robert said without making a move to join him at the door. “What exactly is your son’s illness?”

      “Marcos was born HIV-positive, which has been further complicated by his hemophilia. I’m afraid his illness has progressed to AIDS. It’s been very difficult for all of us and after he lost his last doctor…well, you can see why I’d view a pediatric hematologist with Dr. Armstrong’s impeccable credentials as a blessing, and her arrival here in Venezuela as a gift from God Himself. What better doctors could He have sent than the two of you to look after my son?”

      Emily blinked. She understood the pain parents of terminally ill children suffered, but hoped he wasn’t reading more into their presence than there was. They were doctors, not miracle workers. “Dr. Fletcher and I will do whatever we can to help Marcos. I’m truly sorry for what you’ve had to go through, and for the difficult road that lies ahead for your family.”

      Baltasar smiled, took her arm, and wrapped it around his own. “You, Dr. Armstrong, are an angel.”

      Either that or a tremendous fool, she thought. She set her mind to focusing on the child as they walked down the hall, and not on their predicament. As they entered the room, Emily was surprised to see it rivaled any at Vance Memorial back in Colorado Springs. Mr. Escalante had provided his son with the best medical equipment available.

      “Will you have everything here that you need?” he asked.

      “More than enough,” Emily said, looking around. A side door opened and a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform walked in pushing a little boy in a wheelchair. His emaciated body didn’t detract from the love and laughter in his large brown eyes. “Papa!” he greeted.

      “Hello, Marcos.” Baltasar knelt down to be at eye level with his son. “I’d like you to meet your new doctors. This is Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Fletcher.”

      “Buenas tardes,” Marcos said.

      Emily smiled. “Good afternoon to you, Marcos.”

      Baltasar stood. “And this is Marcos’s nurse, Marguerite.”

      The nurse smiled pleasantly then walked over to Marcos’s hospital bed and turned down the covers.

      “Mr. Escalante—”

      “Baltasar, please.”

      Emily gave a slight nod. “Baltasar, do you have Marcos’s medical records for us to look at?”

      He looked pleased at her question. “Absolutely, right over here.” He opened up a drawer and removed a thick file. Emily took it from him. “Please read it over, visit with my son, and then let me know your findings at dinner this evening.”

      Emily got the feeling his offer wasn’t a request.

      He kissed Marcos on the head and left the room. After the nurse settled Marcos into his bed, Emily stepped forward. “How are you feeling?” she asked the boy.

      “Okay,” he said, then started to cough.

      As his coughing persisted, she asked the nurse for a stethoscope and thermometer. She took his temperature, frowned as she read the elevated reading, then listened to his chest. His little face filled with fatigue. Emily’s gaze met Robert’s across the bed. “Lay back and get some rest,” she said softly to the child, gently brushing his forehead with her fingertips.

      He nodded and gave her a sleepy smile that tugged at her heart. Of all the terminally ill children she’d had to help, she’d never gotten used to the pain and heartache that came with each one she lost. She knew she should distance herself from them, but then she’d look into their sweet, innocent, scared eyes and she’d be lost, her heart sunk. Each time, she’d hoped God in His infinite wisdom and mercy would spare them. Maybe this time He would. She gave Marcos a warm smile, then joined Robert and the nurse in the outer room.

      “How long has he been coughing?” Emily asked the nurse.

      “He just started this morning.”

      “There’s moisture and rattling in his chest. He’s in the beginning stages of pneumonia.” Emily had seen it many times before, and as the illness progressed, the child would grow weaker and weaker.

      “Mr. Escalante will need to be told,” Marguerite said while reaching into an overhead cabinet.

      “What happened to Marcos’s last doctor?” Robert asked casually. Emily had wondered the same thing. She recalled Baltasar’s earlier reference to losing Marcos’s doctor, but couldn’t imagine a doctor leaving his patient at this stage in his illness. And Baltasar didn’t seem like the sort of man who would just let him go.

      The nurse mumbled something without turning.

      “I’m sorry, what was that?” Emily asked.

      Marguerite pulled out a syringe and bottle of antibiotics, then said, “Snakebite,” and quickly left the room.

      Emily turned to Robert. Uneasiness tweaked her stomach as she held his gaze. “There is way too much talk about snakes around here.”

      Peter Vance took in his surroundings and hoped his years of hard work had paid off and he’d finally been granted access into the heart of La Mano Oscura, also known as The Dark Hand. The manicured grounds were a stark contrast to the untamed jungle pushing at the compound’s tall stone walls. The bungalow he’d been led to was large and gracious, with ceiling fans, plantation shutters and yards of mosquito netting. It sure beat the shack he’d been living in—he could barely call it a shack—since he’d left Colorado Springs three years ago.

      He knew when the CIA asked him to upgrade his status and go deep undercover as an operations officer, life as he knew it would be over. But he hadn’t expected how much the isolation would bother him, or how much he’d miss his family.

      How much he’d miss Emily.

      He shook off the thought as he had numerous times before. He’d hoped the long nights alone would have purged her from his mind. Unfortunately they hadn’t. Even here deep in the jungles of Venezuela, where nary the sight of a long wheat-colored blonde could be found, he’d see something that would remind him of the exact shade of hazel in her eyes and there she’d be, at the forefront of his mind.

      Somehow, some way, he had to forget her and move on. By now she’d probably found herself a nice doctor husband, one who’d come home to her safe and sound every night and given her lots of drooling babies to take care of. He could