Authors: Catherine Palmer
Caleb smirked as Sam rolled on some deodorant and pulled a dry T-shirt over his head. “You’d better take a shower if you want a hot chick to like you, sir.”
Sam chuckled. “The only hot chick I’ll ever want is one fried by Colonel Sanders. Believe me, I’m not interested in Ana that way. This is a mercy mission.”
“Yeah, right.” Caleb returned to the computer keyboard. He spoke in Granny’s quavering voice. “Mercy me, that Ana Burns is one pretty lady.”
“Get to work, punk.” Sam rumpled Caleb’s dark curls as he strode past him to the door.
He had no desire for a relationship of any kind with a woman as hardheaded and pushy as that reporter. She disobeyed his orders. Refused to back down when he told her no. Argued with him. Distrusted him and his motives. Made disparaging remarks about the building, the wet towels, the office. And besides all that, she was proud.
The way she held her head so high annoyed him. And she didn’t walk—she prowled. Just because she was tall and had big brown eyes and thick hair, he didn’t have to acknowledge the slightest bit of attraction to her. None at all.
A
na typed the final period on her story and pushed the rolling chair back from her desk. She had come into the office on Saturday to try to get some more work done on the lead paint series. This particular article in the collection still had a long way to go. Why did her stories always hold such potential—and then turn out so bland?
She blamed space constrictions. Carl was forever telling her to cut, cut, cut. She blamed people she interviewed. Why couldn’t they dish out the juicy information she was seeking? Aware they might be quoted, most people clammed up and spoke in the stilted sentences of a freshman in speech class. But most of all, she blamed herself.
If only she could ratchet her writing a notch higher. She wanted every verb to show action. She ached for sensory detail. Her leads needed to hook people and reel them to the very end of the article—no matter if they had to turn through five pages of other text just to reach her fascinating conclusion. Her stories ought to shine and sparkle like little diamonds, so brilliant that no one could ignore them. Perfection, that’s what she sought. Perfection.
“Hey.” A large hand waved before her eyes. “You there anywhere?”
Tearing her attention from the computer screen, Ana focused on a tall man standing in front of her desk. The surprise of seeing him sent a crash of conflicting emotions through her.
“Sam Hawke,” she managed. “Welcome to the land of multicolored clothing and the freedom to walk through a door without being charged by a German shepherd.”
He smiled, a flash of white teeth that charmed her in spite of herself. “I’ve come to suggest a meeting in neutral territory. The demilitarized zone.”
“Aha,” she said. “Well, that would certainly be where I live.”
“How about a cup of coffee?”
“With you?”
He straightened and held out his hands. “See anyone else here?”
“Hmm. This sounds suspicious. A preemptive strike, perhaps.”
He laughed. “Nope. Just a coffee.”
“Hang on, I’ll let my editor know I’m stepping out. We were planning to meet about my series, but you’re a good excuse to put that off until I’ve got more to give him.”
Willing away the unexpected quickening of her heart, Ana stepped across to Carl’s office. What on earth could Sam want with her? Had something happened to Flora? Had he learned something important about the little girl?
“Carl, can you and I find another time to meet?” she called as she simultaneously knocked on his door and swung it wide open. “I’m going out for coffee with the director of Haven.”
Carl looked up from his desk. “Out for coffee? You?”
“Just to talk with the guy.” She jabbed a thumb behind her.
The city editor’s focus swung to the man who stood at her desk. Ana’s followed. Away from Haven, she saw Sam with new eyes. Tall, broad-shouldered, appearing totally at ease in the newsroom, he leaned against a support post and studied his surroundings. The Marine Corps recon man back in action. The athlete ready to spring. Ana couldn’t deny that the total package was impressive—the way he fit into those blue jeans, the shirt hugging his biceps…
“Ana?” Carl’s voice brought her back. “You’re doing an interview?”
She swung around, heat flushing her cheeks. “Yeah, an interview. He’s a…a source.”
“Ah.” Carl grinned. “Have fun.”
Turning away before he could embarrass her further, she hurried back to her desk. Certainly she’d never had trouble dealing with good-looking guys. Though she had dated a variety of interesting men through the years, love was out of the question. Intimacy was impossible. And marriage—no way. She had far too much on her plate to think in that direction.
So, Sam was handsome. What of it?
Ana scooped up her purse and surveyed her desk. The urge to take out her antibacterial cleansers and give the gleaming surface a wipe nearly overcame her. But she resisted. No need to be obsessive. Well, no more than she already was.
“Come on,” she called, stepping past him toward the door that led to the stairs. “We’ll walk down.”
“Sounds good to me. That’s how I came up.”
“You took the stairs?” She stopped in her tracks.
“I always walk when I can. Good exercise.” His brows lifted over those incredibly blue eyes. “Got a problem with that?”
“No, it’s just…well, I walk, too.”
“Hey, we have something in common. Whaddaya know?”
“You wish. We’re as different as two people can be—and what’s more, I can beat you to the ground floor.”
“Not a chance.”
She opened the door to the stairwell and took off. He let out a whoop and came after her, his sneakers pounding the metal steps. She flew down, her hand sliding along the rail and her toes barely touching the stairs.
“Ha!” she cried as she burst out into the parking garage. “I win!”
“You cheated,” he said, nearly running into her.
“I did not.”
“You didn’t run. You flew.”
She laughed. “Come on. There’s a coffee shop on the corner.”
Swinging away from him, she beckoned with one hand. A breeze danced the hem of her skirt around her knees, and her sandals skimmed the pavement.
“Caleb was right about you,” Sam said, moving up to walk beside her.
“Right about what?”
He smiled, dimples curving into the corners of his mouth. “Oh, it’s just a guy thing.”
“So, have you seen her lately?” Ana asked across the small round table in the coffee shop.
“Who?” Sam feigned ignorance, hoping to draw her out, force her to feel her own connection to the child.
“Flora. The little girl who cut her arm.”
“She’s there today.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. Not sure. I can’t talk to her, remember?”
She stirred her coffee, staring as the liquid swirled around in the paper cup. “Doesn’t anyone at Haven speak Spanish?”
“Caleb does—the computer genius from New Mexico—but he’s not fluent.” He watched Ana’s face. “Flora came in with another girl today. She’s not much older, but I’m afraid she may be trouble. Has that look, anyway. They talked for a minute, mostly gesturing, and then the older one left.”
“Oh, Sam.” Her brown eyes glistened. “You don’t suppose that Flora is—”
“No, no.” He held up a hand. “I doubt it. She looks too young. The cops would grab her in a second if they saw her walking the streets. But, as I drove over here, it occurred to me that the older girl may have taken Flora under her wing. When she’s working, she brings the kid to Haven. Then when she’s through, she comes back and picks Flora up. They must be staying someplace together. A motel room maybe. That would be typical. I just hope she’s not grooming Flora. There has to be a pimp lurking around those girls.”
“This is horrible.” Ana threaded her fingers through her hair and propped her elbows on the table. Looking down into her coffee, she shook her head. “If Flora’s living with a prostitute, her future is hopeless. We’ve got to do something, Sam.”
His heart softened at her obvious concern. “Any ideas?”
“I wonder if Jim Slater would know of a family who might take Flora. If he could help out in any way, I’m sure he would. Have you heard from him today? Did he bring you his check?”
“Not yet.” Sam didn’t like to think about the fact that he was still so far from his financial goal. “I’m trusting he’ll come back in the next few days. I’m not having much luck drumming up any other support. But if I can tell people that Jim came through and we’re a lot closer, maybe they’ll kick in a few bucks.”
“He’ll be back. Jim was upset with me yesterday, but I know him too well to think he’d cop out on you. I wonder if those two little girls we saw at his house are out of foster care and with their new parents by now.”
“I hope so.” As he savored his coffee, Sam studied the woman across the table. Each time she spoke of those children or mentioned Flora, her mood altered. Sadness filtered across her face, and her eyes darkened. She seemed to go away somewhere for a moment, as if she had lost herself.
“I wish I could have explained why they left their home country,” she murmured. “Where did Jim say it was?”
“Honduras.”
She looked up. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Sam fiddled with the little box that held packets of sugar and artificial sweetener, lining up the corners. The coffee tasted good despite the intense, muggy heat outside the shop. With the air conditioner on full blast inside the quaint shop and a lulling tune playing, he could almost imagine himself in France or Germany—places he had visited on military leaves.
“So,” he said, “have you given any more thought to the idea we talked about yesterday?”
“Which idea?”
“That you teach a writing class at Haven this evening. So you can talk to the kids, you know.”
She frowned. “Sam, are you certain Jim Slater said those two girls came from Honduras?”
“Absolutely.” He saw she was back to the children, and her sad expression had returned. “Why?”
“La Ceiba…the name Flora mentioned to me the time we spoke in her corner. There’s a town named La Ceiba in Honduras.”
“Hmm. Maybe the girl would have heard of the place, but that can’t be Flora’s home. Honduras is a long way from St. Louis. Her family would have needed money to travel so far. If they had that much money, why does Flora spend her days crouching alone in a corner at Haven?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“She’s probably Mexican. I suspect her parents brought her across the border illegally. Somehow they must have gotten separated on the way to St. Louis.”
“Maybe she got lost,” Ana suggested. “I’ve heard that sometimes the Immigration Service deports adult aliens without knowing children have been left behind.”
Sam shook his head. “That’s bad. On the other hand, what if Flora ran away?”
“No. I don’t want to think about what a child would have to do to survive.”
“Happens all the time.”
“Did I tell you that La Ceiba is the name of a tropical tree?” Ana changed the subject as swiftly as she had run down that flight of stairs. “The tree makes a silky fiber that comes floating down out of the seedpods. Kind of like snow, only better, because it’s not cold.”
As she spoke, she lifted her hands, her graceful fingers moving back and forth as if she were playing an imaginary piano. “We used to have a silk-cotton tree near our house in Brownsville. It might still be there.”
She seemed lost for a moment, then she continued. “Anyway, after Flora mentioned La Ceiba, I looked it up on the Internet. Followers of the Santeria and Palo Mayombe religions revere the tree.”
“Santeria? Isn’t that voodoo or something? I’ve never heard of the other one.”
“Palo Mayombe is similar to Santeria. Both originated with slaves in the Caribbean islands. They combine African beliefs with Catholicism—and sometimes witchcraft. The
ceiba
tree is supposed to be the seat of witches.”
A prickle raced down his spine. “Okay, that’s weird.”
“Worshippers pray to the tree. They put things under it, too—offerings, sacrifices, curses. And they leave cauldrons filled with human remains.”
“This is not good, Ana. Are you sure you heard Flora right?”
“Positive. But there’s more. All kinds of hotels and condos in Mexico, Costa Rica and along the Amazon River have the name La Ceiba. In addition to the city in Honduras, there’s one in Puerto Rico. It’s known as La Ciudad del Marlin, the city of the marlin, and it’s a little over an hour east of the capital, San Juan.”
“Still too far, in my opinion,” Sam said. “Mexico is my bet, although the Santeria thing is interesting. Do you think Flora cut herself for religious reasons?”
“I’m not sure.” She paused. “I’ve heard of sects that practice penitence. They do whip themselves until they bleed. Sometimes they even reenact the crucifixion. People have died.”
“I read about that, but it was in the Philippines.”
“It’s here, too. New Mexico. Texas. Sam, do you know of any Santeria practitioners living in St. Louis?”
“No, but we have a growing immigrant population. It’s possible that some of them come from the Caribbean.”
“In Santeria and Mayombe, they believe the leaves of the
ceiba
tree help them see into the past and future. Witches use the branches as the main ingredient in the broth they make in their cauldrons.”
“Great. I thought I had my kids on guard against every possible evil—guns, knives, drugs, AIDS, unplanned pregnancies. Now you tell me Haven has to be on the lookout for witches.”
“Well, Flora’s certainly not a witch. When she mentioned La Ceiba, she might have been talking about a town. Or the tree.”
“But Ana, she cut herself. Rational, healthy people don’t do that.” Sam pondered the child who sat in a corner of the recreation center each day. She seemed harmless. So frightened and withdrawn. “The thing is, I can’t have her hurting herself again. I think I’m going to have to put her on the list.”
“What list?”