Ana Leigh - Face Of Deception

After a perfunctory greeting, Guillaume looked about expectantly. “The monsieur did not accompany you, Mademoiselle Hamilton?”

Since the remote area was devoid of telephones and radio, Ann knew the couple would not have heard of Clayton’s death.

“Mister Burroughs will not be coming,” she said, fighting back her tears. Dear God! How can I explain this to them when I don’t understand any of it myself?

“Marie, will you make Brandon a sandwich and a glass of milk? He hasn’t eaten anything since morning.”

“And you, mademoiselle?”

“Nothing for me. I’m not hungry.”

When the woman departed with Brandon in tow, Ann sank down on the couch and buried her head in her hands. Her long blond hair draped in a silky curtain about her face—a symbol of the isolated despair she was feeling.

What should I do? Clayton told me to wait here for help. Should I try to get a message to the American Embassy?

She leaned back and closed her eyes. If only it would end by just waking.

“Mademoiselle.” Ann felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder and opened her eyes. “I have your tea, mademoiselle.”

As if in a trance, Ann thanked the woman and accepted the offering. “Is Brandon in bed?”

“Oui, mademoiselle. The young one waits for you to come to say the good night.”

After a few sips of the hot tea, Ann rose wearily to her feet. Until this moment she hadn’t realized how exhausted she was. She patted Marie’s shoulder. “Merci, Marie. I’m sorry to have disturbed you and Guillaume at this late hour. Go to bed now. We won’t need anything else tonight.” The woman nodded and immediately disappeared.

Pausing outside of Brandon’s bedroom, Ann drew a deep breath and grasped the doorknob. Brandon sat in bed playing with a silver coin.

She’d fallen in love with the youngster from the first day the orphaned child had come to live with his grandfather. Brandon felt the same way about her, and followed her around as though she were the mother he had lost.

“So, what have you got there, sport?” she asked, gathering him into her arms.

“Grandfather gave this to me before we left. He said I should keep this coin to remember him by.” Intensity registered on his young face. “Why did he say that, Ann?”

Hugging the boy tighter, Ann forced back her tears. She couldn’t lie to him. “Honey, I have something very sad to tell you. Your grandfather…died this morning.”

The words sounded so final, as if by voicing the truth the appalling act became a reality.

Brandon remained silent. Ann was uncertain he had understood her until the youngster asked sadly, “Is Grandfather in Heaven now with Mommy and Daddy?”

“Yes, he is, sweetheart.” No why or how—just acceptance. She wished he would cry instead of sitting there looking so vulnerable. Her chest knotted with pain at the pathetic sight of the six-year-old child already conditioned to death.

Brushing back the light hair from his forehead, she pressed a kiss to his brow. “Would you like me to stay with you tonight?”

“No. I can stay alone, Ann. I’m a big boy. Grandfather said so.”

The brave but tragic announcement wrenched at her heart. She felt tears welling in her eyes. Rising to her feet, she tucked the sheet around him and then leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Go to sleep now, honey. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“You go to sleep, too. And don’t cry, Ann. Grandfather’s happy now. He always told me how much he missed my daddy.”

As she was about to close the door, Ann saw Brandon open his fist and stare at the coin clutched in his hand. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

“I’ll remember you, Grandfather. I promise,” he declared fervently. Then he tucked the coin into his pajama pocket.

No longer able to contain her sadness Ann hurried down the hallway to the privacy of her bedroom.

By rote, she went through the motions of preparing herself for bed and was about to retire when the door flung open with such force that it slammed against the wall. A scream burst past her lips at the sight of a man in the doorway waving a weapon at her.

“Out. Out,” he ordered sharply, gesturing wildly with the rifle.

“Ann! Ann! Help me,” Brandon cried out from the other room.

“Oh, dear God! Brandon!” In her hurry to reach the frightened child, Ann ignored the armed man and rushed past him. Another abductor was pulling the protesting child by the arm out of his bedroom into the living room.

“Take your hands off him,” she cried, rushing to Brandon’s defense. His captor shoved her away and she fell back onto the couch.

“Don’t you hurt her.” Brandon’s lower lip jutted out pugnaciously as he pounded the chest of his captor. He was sent sprawling next to Ann. She clutched him tightly as they huddled, terrified, while the two servants were herded into the room by more armed men. After a quick exchange, the abductors bound and gagged the servants and took them back to their room.

Several others went into her bedroom, and Ann could hear them ransacking it.

“Up. Up,” her captor ordered when they returned. His knowledge of English may have been limited, but his body language and the menacing gestures spoke an international language that was not difficult to interpret as he herded Ann and Brandon into her bedroom.

As frightened as she was, Ann refused to cower under their intimidating glares. “What is the meaning of this? What do you want from us?”

“No talk. You no talk,” he barked, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

She couldn’t believe the devastation their captors had created in such a short time. The room had been thoroughly sacked in their search for weapons and valuables. Bureau drawers had been pulled out and the contents strewn everywhere. Chairs were upended and pictures yanked off the walls.

After Brandon helped Ann put the mattress back on the bed and restore the bedding to a proper order she insisted he go to bed.

“I’m scared, Ann. I don’t want to go to sleep. When are these mean men going away?”

“Soon, honey. Soon,” she soothed. “Try to sleep. Maybe they’ll be gone in the morning.”

When he finally settled down, Ann went to the door and tried to hear what the men were saying. From the few fragments of sentences she was able to overhear, she grasped that they were waiting for further instructions before moving Brandon and her to a different location.

Good Lord! Who were these men? Were they responsible for Clayton’s death? Were they going to kill her and Brandon, too?

Her breathing came in quick, shallow gasps as her panic mounted. She felt she was choking. Rushing to the window, she raised it and drew several deep breaths. An armed guard outside waved his weapon to indicate she move back inside the room. Irritated, she slammed down the window.

Her nerves were raw, and she could feel herself coming apart. Her fright, Clayton’s death and not knowing the reason behind it all had driven her to the brink of losing her control. Brandon’s need for her was the only thing keeping her from breaking down.

To occupy herself Ann tidied the room. The task helped to take her mind off her misery until she picked up a framed photograph that had been knocked to the floor. Her eyes misted as she gazed at the cherished face of the distinguished-looking man in his sixties. She had snapped the photograph of Clayton Burroughs the day they met.

“Oh, Clayton.” Sobbing, she sank in despair to the floor.

Mike Bishop awoke with a start when Cassidy nudged him with his foot. “I think I just saw the signal.”

Saturated with perspiration, he sat up and looked around hastily at the men stretched out on the deck. All were sleeping except for Dave Cassidy at the helm.