Darkness(81)

“There was a tropical storm coming in when we took off,” she said. “It hadn’t hit yet, but it was on the way. I wanted to either wait a few days until the storm system passed, or take a commercial flight out of Cancún, which was only a few hours away, but Dad and David and Becca voted me down. The three of them were all adventurers, natural-born risk takers, and an approaching storm that at that point wasn’t anything more than some wind and overcast skies was nothing to them. I was the official wuss.” She took a breath. “They were always calling me that, teasing me about being so cautious and careful. I hated having them think I was a wuss. If I hadn’t hated it so much, I might have stuck to my guns and insisted we take a commercial flight if we had to leave that day, or else wait until the weather cleared. But my father wanted to get back and wouldn’t hear of waiting, and as they all pointed out to me we could be almost all the way home by the time we drove to Cancún and got through the airport onto the flight I’d found, and anyway it wasn’t even raining yet. So I caved. I caved.”

Her voice caught, and she shivered. He hugged her closer.

“So you took off under the threat of an incoming storm,” he prompted. “How long were you in the air before it hit? Presuming it did hit.”

“It hit.” Her words were flat. Cal could feel her pressing closer, and he slid a comforting hand down the smooth curve of her back. “We’d been in the air about forty-five minutes when it started to rain. Only a little at first and then a deluge. Sheets of water pouring down, sluicing over the windows, drumming against the fuselage. Big peals of thunder along with flashes of lightning. We were over the jungle, there was no place to land, so that option was out. Dad tried getting above the storm, but he couldn’t. It was too big. We were flying in clouds so thick and black that it was like the darkest of nights. He had to switch to flying by instruments. The wind was the worst. We were bouncing all over the place, hitting wind shears without warning, going up and down like we were in an elevator. Dad was calm. David and Becca were calm. I was scared to death, but I tried not to let it show.” She paused, and Cal felt her fingers digging into the back of his shoulder. “Then a huge wind shear took us down in what felt like a free fall and somehow the tail broke off. The plane went into a dive and crashed in the jungle. I was thrown clear.”

She stopped. He could feel the tension in her body, hear her too-fast breathing, sense her rising agitation.

“The others?” he asked gently.

“They were still with the plane.”

He smoothed the hair back from her face and pressed another kiss to the top of her head. He knew how hard this was for her. His stomach went tight with reaction to her distress.

“Can you tell me the rest of it, honey?”

She clung to him like a barnacle to a boat, like he was her anchor, and the knowledge that this beautiful, brave, resourceful woman was depending on him to get her safely through her emotional storm messed with his own emotions. He felt her getting in under his guard, sinking in hooks where he took good care hooks should not be sunk, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He was deep in the maelstrom with her, and he sure as hell wasn’t letting her go.

When she spoke, her voice was so low he had to strain to hear. “I was knocked unconscious for a few minutes, and when I came to the plane was on fire. Just a little bit, just a few flames licking up around where the tail had been. The fuselage was all crumpled up like an accordion and was wedged in this grove of trees. I ran over to the plane. The cockpit was ripped open and I was able to see inside. My father was slumped over the controls. David—” Her voice quavered, but she swallowed and went on. “David was lying there on the nose of the plane, covered with blood. He’d gone through the windshield. I could see at a glance that he was dead. Becca—she was all twisted up in the wreckage. I thought she was dead, too. The only one I could reach was my father. I grabbed his arm and shook him. The fire was spreading, and I was screaming and trying to pull him out, but I couldn’t. He woke up and kind of shook himself and tried getting himself out and he couldn’t do it, either. His legs were trapped. The fire was racing toward us. I could feel its heat on my back but I wouldn’t look around because I was afraid of what I would see. We were both desperately trying to pull his legs free when he looked past me and said, ‘Get back, you have to save yourself,’ and pushed me away. Then the plane blew up. Just went boom and was engulfed in flames. I got thrown backward, and that’s when my shirt caught fire. You were right: it was burning fuel. It rained down all over me.”

Her voice shook. He held her close and thought of the lacy tracery of scars on her arm, wincing as he imagined the pain she must have suffered getting them. The worst thing was, that pain was nothing compared to the psychological pain she still suffered, was suffering now.

He said, “It’s in the past, it’s over. I’ve got you now.”

She whispered, “I keep—seeing them die. Hearing them die. Becca was alive, too. I know, because she started screaming as the plane burned. My father screamed, too. They were alive. They screamed. And I—you know what I did?—I couldn’t stand watching, or listening, so I turned and ran away and left them to die.”

She started to cry, deep, harsh sobs that shook her from head to toe and stripped him raw inside. He held her and rocked her and kissed her and murmured whatever inane words of comfort came to him and felt his gut twist and his heart break for her.