Complicated Creatures: Part Two Page 4

  Until she saw him. Because this beautiful photographer made her want to be seen. She wanted him to see her.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Sam sped up her gait, planning to pass the photographer without incident or attention. But he straightened suddenly, running a hand through the wild mess of his tumbled blonde hair as he caught her eye. Though she told herself not to, Sam allowed herself to return his gaze across the courtyard. His eyes were golden and arresting, and Sam knew right then that she’d just tempted fate. Because not only did he stare right at her, she had the distinct notion that he could see right through to the heart of her; that no part of her was a mystery to his gaze. Sam wasn’t certain how she knew it, but she knew it down to the bone.

  She bit into her lip, looking away from him even as she heard his camera click, picking up her stride. The wind picked up again as she walked past him, twisting and furling her hair, whipping it around her face and neck as the gust swept across the grass. She thought she heard him call out to her, but the sound was lost in the wind as she strode past the arches, and she felt unaccountably relieved when she rounded the corner, away from his leonine eyes.

  A month later, running late from a lecture, Sam rushed to meet her father and her little brother, Ryland, in the Memorial Student Center on campus. Her father had Wyatt Petroleum meetings in Houston and told her he’d drop by on his way back to the ranch. When Ry heard that his father planned to see Sam, he’d insisted on coming along, nagging and making a nuisance of himself until their father had finally relented.

  Ry saw her first, waving her over to a gallery area where a student exhibit was being staged. Her heart swelled as she saw him. The hardest part of college was being away from Ry for long stretches of time. They’d been inseparable since his birth despite their age difference.

  “Hey, Sammy!” he called out. “There’s a picture of you!” Ry bounced on his toes in excitement as he pointed toward a wall. Sam strolled over, draping her arms around his thin shoulders in a tight hug.

  “Where?” she asked, smiling down at him. She could have sworn he’d grown an inch in the last few weeks since she’d seen him.

  Ry grinned up at her, his eyes bright. “There!” he exclaimed as he pointed at a large black-and-white photo of her walking past the Corps Arches. “It looks like you. Just like!”

  Her mystery photographer had captured the image of her with a time-lapse technique that recorded her walking past him from start to finish. He’d managed to make her look like one of the Furies, her hair caught in the wind, her face and body a blur as she moved passed his camera. The darkening, ominous weather and the stone arches stood in harsh relief in the background, the overall effect startling and dramatic.

  “And it won an award—see?” Ry pointed out. “Did you pose for this?”

  “I’m afraid she didn’t.”

  Sam glanced up, breath catching in her throat as the photographer strode toward them, a half-smile playing on his mouth. He was even better looking up close. She struggled to swallow, feeling uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he told her with a deep Texan drawl, his golden eyes warm. “I meant to thank you for the shot. It’s getting published in the paper tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Sam asked, startled. She felt unaccountably embarrassed—a feeling so bizarre and unusual to her, she heard herself denying it was her in the photo. “It’s a beautiful picture, but are you sure it’s me?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied simply. “You were the most interesting subject I’d seen all afternoon.”

  “What’s this about you being in a photo?” Sam’s father asked, striding over to join them. He placed a kiss on her head in greeting before turning to the photographer.

  “I should introduce myself,” the photographer smiled. “I’m Wes. Wes Elliott. I’m a junior here, majoring in communication and journalism.”

  “Robert Wyatt,” her dad responded, shaking his hand. “This is my son, Ryland and my daughter, Samantha. She’s a sophomore here,” he informed Wes, the note of pride in his voice making Sam flush.

  “Really?” Wes asked, surprised as he glanced back at her. “How have I not seen you around before?”

  Sam shrugged, struggling to feign casual while her heart pounded like she’d run the 110-meter hurdle. “I don’t spend much time on campus outside of classes and NROTC.” She glanced back at the photo. “It’s a lovely shot.”

  “I had a good subject,” Wes replied easily. “Got lucky. Right place, right time, I guess.”

  Sam felt herself warm under his gaze, unsure if it was embarrassment or awareness.

  Her father turned to look at the picture, a proud smile lighting his face. “Can I buy the photo, son?” he asked after a moment. “This one rarely lets me take pictures of her. It’d be nice to have a photo of her in the house besides the ugly ones from the yearbook.”

  “God, Dad!” Sam smacked his arm hard.

  “What?” her father teased, rubbing his arm with a chuckle. “You always look so damn mean in those photos.”

  “It’s true, Sammy,” Ry chimed. “You look cranky as all get-out every single year.”

  “You try lining up for ages in a hot cafeteria to take those damn pictures,” she grumbled.

  “I do and I look good,” Ryland bragged, puffing out his little chest.

  Cocky brat. Sam tousled his hair gently as he shuffled away.

  Wes reached into his pocket, pulling out a tattered Moleskine and a pen. “If you give me your address, sir, I’ll print and mat another one to send to you. It’s the least I could do as a thank you for your daughter’s unwitting participation in my work,” he smiled, handing her father the notebook and pen. As her dad filled out the information, Wes looked back at her. “It’ll be featured in The Statesman tomorrow. I’m here to meet with the reporter who’s interviewing some of the featured photographers and artists. Maybe you could join us?” he asked, that little half-smile playing on the edge of his lips again.

  “I wish I could,” she replied, glancing back at her father. “But we have plans.”

  “Yes, that’s right—we do,” her dad agreed, handing Wes back his notebook. “My kids and I were going to grab a bite to eat. Nothing complicated—just some good old-fashioned barbecue. If you’re free after that interview, you’re more than welcome to join us,” he offered amiably.

  “I’ve never turned down barbecue,” Wes grinned back. “We’re meeting the reporter over there. Shouldn’t take too long,” he told her, gesturing to the seating area off the gallery. “Join me?” He drew up his arm, offering it to her.

  Sam glanced at his arm, then back at him. Wes favored her with a sexy grin, sunlight in his eyes. Enthralled, she slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, shocked at how good it felt, how easy it was to touch this perfect stranger. She squeezed the taut muscle of his arm experimentally, flushing as soon as she realized her slip. But Wes squeezed back, his other hand slipping over hers as he smiled down at her.

  “Ry and I are just gonna check out the rest of the exhibit while we wait,” her father told her, looping an arm around his son’s shoulders.

  Sam could only nod as Wes steered her away. She took a deep breath and peeked back up at him.

  “You should know I went back every day for a week hoping to see you again. I was beginning to wonder if I’d dreamed you,” he confided with a relaxed drawl.

  Sam blinked, surprised and atypically tongue-tied.

  “What?” Wes asked, his expression amused. “You didn’t realize the only reason I entered the photo into this competition was for a chance to finally meet you?”

  “I doubt that,” she replied. “You’ve got plenty of talent.”

  “I’m good, but not that good,” Wes grinned. “I’ll have to change the title now.”

  Sam shot him a quizzical look.

  “I entitled the photograph Unnamed Muse,” he told her as they neared the group. “But now I know your name.”

  Chapter 3r />
  December 1st—Present Day

  Thirty-five Thousand Feet¸ Somewhere over South America

  J A C K

  It’s only when you need to be somewhere that time goes interminably, painfully, and punishingly slow.

  Jack brooded as he glanced down at his Panerai for the fourth time in the space of an hour. The flight attendant set another glass of mineral water beside him, smiling gently.

  “Two more hours, sir,” she told him, anticipating his only recurring question after eight hours in flight.

  Jack nodded stiffly, looking out the window again at the hot blue sky over Brazilian air space.

  It was summertime in South America while freezing winter winds swept through Chicago. Jack had always wanted to visit Rio. He’d imagined color-splashed streets filled with dancers and party-goers shimmying to sambas during Carnaval. He’d envisioned a feast for the senses, gorgeous, scantily-clad bodies undulating in the heat, fireworks bursting over white sand beaches. Never in his wildest imaginings could he have dreamt he’d be flying there to take care of his badly-wounded brother.

  Jack battled a bout of nausea as he worried he might arrive too late to see Jaime alive again; being left to sort through the details of handling and transporting his remains. With a trembling hand, Jack picked up the water glass, downing it as he sat back, attempting to shield his mind from those bleak thoughts, knowing they would do him no good.

  His phone rang and he picked it up, wondering if it would be Samantha finally calling with news. He hadn’t spoken to her in hours—not since before he’d left Chicago, even after she’d promised to contact him with any news. Instead, all his updates came from Marvin, her assistant, via texts and emails to his family. Jack wondered at her tacit silence—if she was giving him time and space to cool off or if this was a passive-aggressive reaction to the broader issues around their relationship. Jack sucked in a breath, longing to hear her voice and at the same time hoping that it wasn’t her at the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” he answered, holding his breath.

  “Anything new?” his dad asked gruffly, the worry evident in his voice.

  “No, nothing,” Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Jaime’s still in ICU.”

  “Nulla nuova, buona nuova.3 How far out are you?”

  “Two hours to landing,” Jack replied. “Though I’m surprised you don’t have my plane on radar,” he muttered in a poor attempt at humor.

  “Trust me: I considered it,” Sandro replied dryly.

  “How’s Maddie?” he asked, referring to Jaime’s daughter.

  “She’s good. We’ve decided not to tell her anything until we know more. She’s too little to understand. It’ll only distress her.”

  “Agreed,” Jack murmured. “And Ma?”

  “She’s focusing on Maddie and transferring her case loads so she can handle anything with Jaime if she needs to, whether it’s taking care of him personally or organizing a class action against the Brazilian government for their poor handling of the riots in the first place. You know how she gets.”

  “Is that an Italian-mother response or is that more of an every-mother thing?”

  “Se la donna vuol tutto la puol,”4 Sandro replied. “It’s interesting, really. Women are always painted as emotional first-responders, and maybe they are, because they don’t mind showing how they feel. But I know one thing to be true after being married to that woman for forty years: She’s the toughest, smartest person to have in your corner, and if someone she loves is threatened, she’s the meanest, most cunning enemy you’ll ever find.”

  Jack’s thoughts immediately returned to Samantha. The exact same thing was true of her. As angry as he was with her, as unsure of their relationship as he was, he knew she was made of the same mettle. His father probably suspected it too, but he’d given him the file he had on her anyway.

  “Dad, I need you to tell me what you know about Samantha.”

  Sandro remained quiet for a moment.

  “Dad—” he began again.

  “You read the file?”

  “I started, but most of what I saw, or didn’t see, was redacted. I need you to level with me.” Jack took a deep breath. “Who is she, Dad? Who is she really?”

  “Hindsight being 20/20, I shouldn’t have given it to you,” Sandro sighed.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know your brother bent my ear back after you two talked? And he was right, Gianni,” Sandro continued. “If you and Samantha are going to make this work—you have to trust each other.”

  “Bullshit, Dad,” Jack countered. “You don’t get to open Pandora’s box and then try to stuff the contents back in. You said Samantha was dark. That she was dark for a reason. I’m about to walk into a hell, and I am completely reliant on her right now in more ways than one, so I need you to tell me—tell me what I need to know about her.”

  Jack listened to the responding silence, imagined his father standing in his study, staring out the picture window as he contemplated Jack’s request.

  “She loves you, Gianni,” his father said after a moment.

  “She hasn’t told me that.”

  “She doesn’t need to,” Sandro rebutted. “We can all see it. You knowing these things will only hurt her. And it will hurt you. I see that now.”

  “You think I’m not hurting, Dad? You think I’m not already bleeding over this?” Jack replied, his eyes burning. “I wanted her to tell me. I’ve been waiting for her to do it. But you opened this up and now you need to level with me.” Jack leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “If I have to hear it at this point, I’d rather it come from you. So just tell me, Dad. Tell me what I need to know.”

  Silence hung between them, heavy with tension. Jack wondered whether his father would leave him hanging.

  “Quel ch’è fatto, è fatto,”5 Sandro finally said, resigned. “Sam was an exceptionally-talented interrogator in the military,” Sandro started carefully. “According to her commanding officer, she was unerringly good at discovering the deepest fears and weaknesses of her suspects, then tapping them like a vein. She had no compunctions about exploiting their failings—and she was highly intuitive—able to pick up on things others missed,” Sandro paused, taking a breath. “Though she was technically aligned with the Navy, she worked closely with interrogators across military branches in both Afghanistan and Iraq. The intel she retrieved enabled us to capture countless terrorists and foil at least half a dozen major plots. While we were at war, she was able to put massive dents into both the Taliban and al Qaeda networks.”

  Jack gripped the water glass.

  Did he really want to know details?

  He took a breath. There’s no going back.

  “Define what you mean by ‘no compunctions,’ Dad.”

  Sandro sighed submissively. “You have to understand, Gianni. The terrorists she’d deal with were unafraid to die. Often they expected it. Arrogant in the face of death. They imagined their self-sacrifice was justified, spiritually supported—”

  “Just spit it out, Dad,” Jack gritted out. “Did she torture people?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Sandro conceded. “It was more psychological and emotional torture than anything, though she also leveraged chemical dependency when the situation warranted it.”

  “So she preyed on addicts—”

  “No, Gianni,” Sandro replied candidly. “She made them addicts. Pharmacological interrogation was one of her specialties.”

  Jack sucked in a tight breath.

  “The withdrawals would become so excruciating, so debilitating, suspects would break down—tell her anything and everything,” Sandro continued. “She was able to be their savior and tormentor at the same time. She would show them incredible kindness—and vicious cruelty—two sides of the same coin. As her CO put it, she was exceptionally talented at breaking them down—”

  “What happened to them?” Jack interrupted, nausea making him squee
ze his eyes shut.

  “Many managed to hang on. Some survived for years in rendition.”

  “Fuuuck,” Jack exhaled slowly, his voice locking up as he struggled to breathe evenly.

  “You have to understand, Gianni,” Sandro continued. “Nothing Samantha did was unsanctioned. We relied on the intel she was able to retrieve. We needed her to be good at her job—”

  “Jesus, stop—just stop,” Jack interrupted, wiping a hand down his face, his own battle with addiction adding to the bile rising in his throat. “You’re telling me she ruined men. She didn’t just interrogate and torture them. She ruined them.”

  “Yes,” his father admitted quietly after a moment. “La paura fa novanta.”6

  “She knows about me,” Jack confessed after a pause. “She knows about my problems.”

  “I guessed as much,” Sandro sighed. “Before I met her, that’s why I wanted you to see the file.”

  “You thought she’d use it against me somehow,” Jack guessed.

  “Yes. No,” Sandro replied, clearly conflicted. “Cristo—I don’t know. At first I thought she’d manipulate you, and I wanted to warn you to be aware of that. But when I realized she loved you, I thought she’d protect you. She knows more than anyone the steep descent that dependence is.”

  “This is what she was talking about,” Jack uttered to himself, recalling their conversation a day ago, when she was leaving Texas to fly down to Rio. When she told him his brother had been shot and that he might not survive—

  “What do you mean?” his father asked, interrupting his reverie.

  “She told me she’s been having memories. She called it a ‘painful reawakening.’”

  “I can see how that would be. She did two tours, Gianni. She was awarded two Purple Hearts, a Silver Star. She earned those painfully—brutally. I can only imagine what she’s had to contend with to accomplish what she has for her country.”