Once on land, Cam held the woman in his arms and bounded up the series of steps. Recalling the fish market he had passed on his walk to the shore, he raced back and located the deep outdoor sink attached to the back of the shop. After plugging the drain with the rubber stopper and filling the basin, he plunged her injured leg into the hot water. Her cry of pain was stifled as she vomited down his bare chest. Cam wiped her mouth with his thumb.
“The hot water breaks up the toxin and slows the spread, but we still need to get you to a hospital.”
“Oh, God. This hurts like a mother.” She moaned.
“People compare the pain to childbirth, so hurting like a mother is pretty accurate.” Cam gave her a crooked grin.
“Thank you for helping me, but if you crack another joke, I’m going to punch you in the nose,” she threatened.
“You might punch me in a second anyway because I want to see if I can pull the barb out. Sometimes, it's too deep, but if it's sticking out, I can get it.” Cam waited for her permission.
She nodded, the fogged dive mask still covering her face bobbing up and down on her head. Cam steadied her on the edge of the industrial sink and pulled a long tan leg from the scalding water. He stared for just a beat at her painted pink toes before rotating her already swollen ankle. Below the edge of the wetsuit, the stinger protruded just slightly from the puncture, but it was enough. Fortunately, it was relatively short, about an inch and a half in length, and Cam employed the ripping-off-the-bandaid method pulling the jagged shard from the base of her calf. She cried out and, almost involuntarily, whirled her arm around, landing a surprisingly accurate blow to his right eye. Then she passed out.
The fishmonger poked his head out the door, assessed the situation, and returned with his phone. Moments later, as Cam cradled her cap-covered head, the whining hee-haw of an ambulance sounded in the distance. He extracted the snorkel from the rubber ring on the side of the dive mask and set it on the back ledge of the sink, leaving the fogged mask in place—better that she didn’t get a good look at him. Moreover, nothing could compare to the rescue fantasy he’d conjured in his head. He’d leave it untarnished for reenactments on lonely nights—long legs and pink toes and a faceless beauty. He’d edit out the puke and the soon-to-be black eye.
The ambulance pulled to a stop, and the paramedics hopped out. After confirming the diagnosis, they immediately injected her with what Cam assumed was the standard administration of a tetanus shot and an antibiotic. He explained as best he could in rudimentary Catalan—his Spanish was fluent, but Cam knew the locals chafed at the usage—that he did not know the woman and had merely pulled her from the water when he saw her struggling. Nevertheless, the two men insisted on his contact information.
That gave him an idea. He quickly scribbled the number of Miguel Ramirez's cell phone back at his apartment at Bishop Security. The CIA monitored all calls to that phone. If someone from the hospital happened to call, The Agency would be alerted to his whereabouts. The medic took the slip and turned to help load the unconscious woman into the back of the ambulance.
Just as she was about to disappear from view, she shot up on the gurney with a gasp and ripped the mask and cap from her head as if they were choking her. A massive tangle of dark hair was matted to her head, and her face bore the impressions of the mask. She made a panicked sweep of her surroundings, but before her wide eyes landed on him, she retched, and the paramedic placed a kidney-shaped dish under her chin. Her face contorted in pain and mortification as she emptied the remainder of her stomach into the bowl. Cam stood in the alley, watching, and, as the second paramedic pulled the rear doors closed, she lifted her hand without looking up and flipped him the bird.
Cam cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You’re welcome!” as the ambulance pulled away.
Still grinning, Cam scooped some water from the basin and washed the mess from his chest. With proper treatment, she would fully recover by the end of the day. Reining in his revelry, he ran through the events that had transpired, noting that he hadn’t done anything that a regular guy who knew how to swim and had some basic first aid wouldn’t do. He acknowledged that Miguel Ramirez probably would have lit a joint, sat back, and watched her thrash. Even so, no one had been paying attention, and even if they had, it wasn’t too out of character. He dove in the water to help a beautiful woman. What guy wouldn’t? Granted, he was assuming she was beautiful, all evidence to the contrary.
He thought about his dad's “zing test.” He hadn’t felt a shock or a jolt. There was no tingle or zap. Rather, he felt something else, something he hadn’t felt in so long, something so foreign, that it took him a moment to identify it. After a dozen years fighting wars in one form or another, Cam found himself standing in his underwear in a rutted alley, staring at a rusty sink filled with bloody water and puke, and feeling… peace.
A peace that was shattered a moment later when he noticed a man standing in an alcove half a block away watching his every move.
Evan walked gingerly toward the exit of the Palma hospital, feeling a bit like a callow tourist. She was wearing hospital scrub pants over her swimsuit and a pair of flip-flops a nurse had given her. The stingrays had startled her, and, rather than remain calm and continue swimming, she had thrashed and flailed, inciting their aggression. The doctor had treated her injury successfully, and she should fully recover in a matter of days.
The doctor also encouraged her—in English that was surprisingly good and annoyingly parental—that she should be sure to thank the man who helped her to shore, as he had, in all likelihood, saved her life.
She toyed with the little slip of paper the paramedic had placed in a plastic drawstring bag with her mask and swim cap. Evan was uncomfortable playing the victim; it was a role she swore she would never play again, but she owed this man her thanks. God, he had charged into the cold bay without a wetsuit and swam through the angry rays to rescue her. What's more, she had felt safe in his arms. She limped over to the reception area to ask to use the phone but thought better of it, not wanting to speak to the man in the middle of a crowded hospital. Returning the scrap of paper to the bag, she made a mental note to call when she got back to her room. Her to-do list was getting long. In addition to tending her wound, she had to call Dr. Emberton and explain what had happened. Then she needed to formulate a plan to return to the caves and figure out the meaning of those markers. She wasn’t on Mallorca to embark on some Fifteenth Century treasure hunt, but she had tugged at a thread, and she was determined to unravel the mystery.
With her rudimentary plan in place, Evan hobbled to the exit and hailed a cab.