St. Andrew the Scot Clinic

Quintana Roo, Mexico

February 21

By the time Andie had stepped behind the shower curtain and stripped off the rest of her rain-soaked clothes, Sister Mary Inez had arrived. Peeking out from behind the curtain, she dropped the rest of her garments on the floor and watched the linebacker-of-a-nun take the little girl from Pakal.

Immediately, the child began to wail. Sister Mary Inez had that effect on people.

Turning on the shower, Andie let the tepid water run over her, but it did little to soothe her pent-up fury.

Mr. Big Important Agent for the WHO trying to scare me into staying with some ridiculous story about a parasite. Did he think I'd buy that? He can stuff the Jeep keys. I'll walk back to San Francisco.

Frantic splashes from the other side said the child was hastily being bathed to remove as much dirt and grime as possible. Sister Inez jabbered at the girl in Spanish, then English, and when those didn't work, in her limited acquaintance with Mayan dialects.

Andie had already done all that but decided it was better not to share to avoid one of Inez's looks, which once again said the recipient of Pakal's mistaken charity was more trouble than she was worth.

A sudden scream pierced the air, and Andie felt a pang of guilt. She'd also been on the receiving end of the Qajawkik's needles too many times. A string of whimpers and snuffles, a toddler's hiccup, and then silence, and she let go of the breath she'd been holding.

By now, the water had gone from tepid to cold. She flipped the knob, and the old pipes clamped off with a shudder. Reaching through the curtain, she searched for the stool and the towel on top of it, but neither were there. Gathering the plastic curtain around her, she peered into the surgery. Except for the little girl stretched out in a drug-induced sleep on the surgical table, an IV in her arm, the place was empty.

"Sister Inez?" Andie called meekly and then berated herself for being such a coward. How could the nun intimidate her when she wasn't in the room?

No towel in sight, her clothes carted away, she felt oddly vulnerable, something more than her naked state.

She felt trapped.

"Pakal?" she called, fighting an overwhelming urge to run naked from the room. "Hey, this isn't funny. Where are my clothes?"

"Pakal?"

"Hold on," he said, exasperated, as he came through the surgery's garden entrance. Showered and shaved in record time, he wore a black cotton soutane that swept across the worn tile as he crossed to a set of cabinets. Unlocking one, he grabbed a large white towel and tossed it to her.

Andie caught the towel one-handed. "Where are my clothes?"

"Being boiled in bleach."

"Those shorts were new."

"Not anymore."

"Perfect," Andie scowled and slipped back behind the shower curtain only to step back out seconds later, the towel wrapped around her like a suit of armor. She looked for her knapsack, but it was nowhere to be found. "Pakal, where's my knapsack?"

He stood facing another set of cabinets, fussing with something, his back to her, taking his time.

"Would you please get it so I can get dressed and get the hell out of here?"

"Why? Everything you have is soaked. I'll get you some clothes in a minute, but first—"

He turned to face her, blood kit in hand, and Andie felt herself go cold all over, her legs jellied and leaden at the same time. She grabbed the shower curtain and held on, fighting the urge to sink to her knees and roll up in a ball.

"I know you don't like needles," he said, an uncharacteristic sympathy in his voice. "But the only way to tell if you're infected with the parasite is to culture your blood."

"No." It was unnatural, Andie's dread of needles. Less than a spider bite, yet they held such power to terrorize.

"If allowed to take hold, the parasite will kill you. There is no cure."

She looked at the child on the table. Asleep or dying? If what Pakal said was true, it didn't matter. One would replace the other soon enough.

"If a regimen of anti-parasitic and antibiotics is administered right after infestation, there's a chance the patient might survive. But once the circles manifest, the odds drop dramatically." He pointed at the girl. "This child is the fifth case I've seen in the last three weeks."

"But the ward is empty," Andie said.

Pakal nodded once, delivering the bad news as he always did, straightforward and without hesitation. She could see the deep sadness in him, the anger at the injustice of it all. Strange, through all her years, she'd seen him worried, frustrated, beleaguered, and furious beyond words, usually at her. But until now, she'd never seen him afraid. For once, he wasn't commanding. He was asking. No, he was begging.

And it occurred to her that despite everything she'd done to provoke him, including the swearing—especially the swearing—the priest had remained calm; he hadn't risen to the moment. She would have noticed if she hadn't been so upset about the child, the mess her company was in. Her life was in.

"Now, I've just spent the last week in the jungle looking for the source of the parasite," Pakal said. "And I'm tired. I am unbelievably tired. So, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't give me a hard time and do what I ask for a change." He held out his hand, his long fingers sensitive with the skill of a surgeon, and Andie felt herself weaken. "Let's get it over with."

In the end, he'd get what he wanted. He always did. She put her hand in his and let him lead her across the room. To the stool in the corner of a set of cabinets where she'd sat as a child. A place where he'd drawn her blood so many times she'd lost count.

As she watched him prepare, she began to detach. A trick she'd learned as a child to hide from the worst of it.

"You aren't going to faint on me, are you?" Pakal wrapped a thin slice of medical elastic around her upper arm.

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction."

The Qajawkik smiled, the skin crinkling around his eyes.

His eyes. If I die tomorrow, I'll remember those eyes.

"Make a fist."

Beads of sweat popped out on her upper lip. A swab of something cool kissed her inner elbow, and she shivered.

"Little stick."

The bite of the needle. Blood filling a test tube. Andie felt herself go cold all over, her mind retreating to a distant corner, a dark place she hadn't visited in a long time. Lonely orphan that she was waited there, its child's voice saying the same thing over and over all the days of her life.

My father left me. Why did he leave me?

"Done." Pakal slipped the needle from her arm, pressed the cotton ball to the wound, and a drop of blood spread out in a nebulous circle.

The Qajawkik placed his hands on the countertops beside her, holding her there just as he had done when she was a child.

"I'm alright." She tried not to squirm.

Pakal cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. Opening a nearby drawer, he grabbed a bottle of tablets, shook out two, and, fetching a metal pitcher from his desk, filled a small paper cup with water.

"What's that?" Andie suspicion born from too many years of being forced to take his noxious potions.

"Hopefully, it'll kill any larvae."

"You know I can't take those. Everything you give me makes me sick."

Let's hope not this time." He touched the tablets to her bottom lip.

Reluctantly, Andie opened her mouth, took the pills, and, accepting the cup of water, washed them down. Pakal studied her for a long moment. Dipping inside the pocket of his soutane, he pulled out a set of keys, singling out one from the rest. "You'll find scrubs in the cabinet by the fridge. They fit Sister Inez, so they're sure to fit you. Though cheesecloth would fit you, you're so thin. You American women and your obsession with weight."

He laid the keys on the counter beside her. "Don't forget to lock the cabinet when you're done. The boys like to sell the scrubs to the locals for bits of pocket change."

He turned to leave.

"Pakal—" He was almost to the garden door before she found the courage to call him back.

His expression, resigned patience itself as he turns to look at me. He knows what I'm going to ask.

"What I did—"

My God, he's going to tell me now, about my past, where I come from, what he knows about my father and why he left me. But why now? What's so special about now?

"It's time I tell you about how you came here. "Past time. Get dressed. We'll go for a walk."

And then he was gone.

Part of Andie wanted to go after him. Give him no time to reconsider. But her saner side needed him to be gone, at least long enough for her to breathe. Hard to do with him in the room. And though he had left, she could still feel his presence, which made the little girl in her shiver because the little girl remembered. How much larger than life he'd been. How fierce and unforgiving he was as he ruled the locals, the Mission, and her life like an ancient Mayan god.

Feeling queasy, she slid off the stool and headed for the garden door. Maybe some fresh air would quench the sudden fire burning in her belly, the headache pounding behind her eyes.

Andrea Lynn, born in sin—

Sister Mary Inez's rhyme, the one she'd taunted her with throughout her childhood, played over and over in her head. Strange, she should think of that now.

....Bastard child, rogue and wild—

She plucked the cotton ball from the crook of her arm and tossed it at the trashcan as she stumbled by. But she missed, and it landed inside a cardboard box filled with packing peanuts.

....In hell you'll fry on the day you die.

Bile rose in her throat and made her gag. Two more steps, and she collapsed to her knees.

"Andrea." Pakal's voice sounded far away, so she was surprised when his hand touched her shoulder.

And then it hit her.

He's going into the jungle after the parasite. Worried he might not return, he sent for me, enticing me with that ridiculous telegram so he could tell me about my past?

A wave of nausea hit. She lurched forward and threw up on the worn linoleum, her towel falling away seconds after fresh, white sheeting covered her back.

Gentle fingers gathered her hair from her face while a firm hand braced her forehead as she continued to wretch. Somewhere above her, she could hear Pakal fussing.

"Inoculations make you sleep for days, medications make you wretch, and aspirin turns you cyanotic. You and your strange chemistry." He sighed. "Sometimes, Andrea Lynn, you drive me crazy."