pain. He cringed and tightened his grip on the walking stick. Outside, the morning sun shone through leaves and sent dappled shadows dancing across the ground.
Tristan lifted his face and let the energizing sun’s heat soak through him, trying to keep his mind clear and open, trying to be glad he was alive.
But as hard as he tried to stay in the warm, bright present, the nightmare of his struggle with death clutched at him. He couldn’t shake the memory of plunging into the dark, churning water off the oil rig.
He relived each terrifying moment, as dark, chill salt water seeped in through his mouth and nose and the shock of cold on his skin paralyzed his muscles.
He’d felt but hadn’t reacted to the bumps and nibbles and flesh-ripping bites of the sharks that circled him until he’d opened his eyes and saw blood everywhere. His blood. It had swirled and wafted past him like ink dripped in water, darker than the brownish water of the Gulf.
Tristan gagged and coughed reflexively, and greedily sucked in fresh air until the horrible memories began to fade. He was beginning to appreciate the small things in life, like breathing. A wry smile touched his lips for a second as he limped over to a rough-hewn bench Boudreau had built under a pecan tree.
He didn’t sit, because then he’d have to stand up again. Instead, he propped the walking stick against the bench and watched the morning come alive. Birds circled the yard, stopping to peck for seeds and nuts and insects.
Boudreau had a goat tethered to a tree with a generous amount of line so it could wander almost uninhibited. A vague memory of cool milk sliding down his throat took away the remembered burn of salt water.
As the quiet of dawn turned into the hustle and bustle of daytime in the bayou, Tristan made a decision. There was no more time for rest and recuperation. He had to solve the mystery of his near murder, and there was no better time than now. He would walk a mile today, all the way down to the dock and back. He was ready to walk that far. He had to be.
When Boudreau appeared, carrying a bucketful of water from a hidden artesian spring, Tristan told him his plan.
“What for you thinking about going down there?” Boudreau shook a finger at him. “You ain’t got the stamina yet, you. You want somewhere to go? Strip the sheets off that cot and take them down to the spring and wash them. Use that Ivory soap. It don’t hurt the water too much.” He stalked past Tristan into the house and within a moment came back out, carrying the bucket, now empty.
“Haul up a bucketful of water when you’re done washing. See how that goes, then we’ll talk about how far you think you can walk.”
“Boudreau,” Tristan said. “You saved my life. If you hadn’t been out fishing that morning and stopped the bleeding in my leg, I wouldn’t be alive now. I owe you too much and respect you too much to argue with you, but I can’t lie in bed any longer. I’ve got to strengthen this leg as much as I can, although I know it’s never going to be as good as it was.” He sighed. “There’s enough I won’t be able to do. I don’t want it to wither down to complete uselessness.”
“Wither? Son, ain’t no use making up stories about what ain’t happened yet. The future gonna happen, yeah, but its story ain’t been writ yet. You start pushing yourself too much, you’ll undo the good you’ve done and, before you know it, you’ll accidently throw yourself into that future of your own making. See?”
“So what should I picture, rather than the truth that without most of the muscle in my calf, I’ll never do better than a slow and painful limp for the rest of my life?” he asked bitterly.
Boudreau studied him for a moment. “How ’bout you picture that pretty little wife of yours back home and mourning for you. See if that’s a better motivation.”
“What? Sandy’s back? Here?” Shocked, he glanced in the direction of the house. Then one of the many things Boudreau had told him during the past few weeks came into his mind.
He recalled his friend telling him that Murray Cho had gotten into the house without setting off the alarm and had come out a few moments later with what looked like Sandy’s laptop computer.
Tristan had been surprised—he’d never imagined Murray Cho as a thief.
“She can’t be back,” he cried. “Murray could come back. He thinks she’s gone, and if she surprises him—”
“There you go again, making a surefire mountain out of a piece of ground where there might be a molehill one day. Slow down, son. Let things happen as they will. Just be ready when they do.” Boudreau assessed him. “Meanwhile, how come you think she’s not safe? You left her alone when you worked on the rigs.”
He thought of Sandy, waiting for him week after week, never having a full-time husband, and he never having a full-time wife. Now she was less than a mile away.
He wanted to run to her and grab her up and kiss her until they both were panting with desire. He wanted to see how much her tiny baby bump had grown. And he wanted to put his hands on it and feel the child they had created, the child he already thought of as his son.
But he was afraid. Not only did he not want to show his face, he didn’t want to chance her telling someone—her best friend, or his.
“I had no choice. Besides, I didn’t know they were going to kill me. If they find out I’m alive, what’s to stop them from doing it right this time?”
“Who’s them? That captain’s dead. Everybody’s gone from the oil rig now.”
“Come on, Boudreau. The captain was never the man in charge. The boss is still out there. He’s some big muckety-muck in the company that owned the oil rig, Lee Drilling. And that man knows I can potentially identify him.”
“Yeah?” Boudreau said. “Who is he?”
“I said potentially. I don’t know who he is. The first time I heard the captain talking about a plan to smuggle illegal weapons into the US and give them out to kids on the streets, it was a complete accident. I realized I was listening to terrorists, and that was only one side of the conversation. I put together a program to capture and save every conversation that took place on that satellite phone.”
“And that captain never said a name?”
“I don’t know. I never had a chance to listen to all the recordings. Too afraid I’d get caught. I stored them on a flash drive, hoping I could get it to Homeland Security. They can use voice recognition technology to identify the man, and that will implicate him in the smuggling operation.
“Something went wrong with my program and the captain caught me fooling with his satellite phone. He kicked me out of his office and never said anything, but I know that’s why they tried to have me killed.”
“So where’s that flash drive? You for sure didn’t have nothing on you when I fished you out of the Gulf.”
“That’s just it. I hid it in the house the last time I was home. My plan was to get it to Homeland Security on my next week off. But I never got that week off. Now I don’t know if Murray found it when he got the laptop.”
“That’s why you don’t want Sandy back here.”
Tristan nodded grimly. “I’d like to get Homeland Security to put a guard on her, but to do that, I’d have to let them know I’m alive. And as soon as they hear from me, they’ll pull me in to DC for debriefing. Oh, they’d honor my request to guard her, but I can’t be sure she’s safe if I’m not the one protecting her. I mean look at how many good soldiers who have the protection of the government have been killed. How many innocent civilians.”
“I get you wanting to protect her yourself, but, son, you ain’t capable right now.”
Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what are you saying? That my only choice is to notify Homeland Security? I’d be signing her death warrant. Somebody as high up as the captain’s boss would know as soon as I surfaced. He’d have plenty