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  “Anyway, I wanted to check on you while I was this way.”

  “What are you doing back here? I thought you were already across the island.”

  “I’ve come back for the gold.”

  “The gold,” she said sharply. “But, Spencer, isn’t it hidden in an area under Japanese control?” Spencer had put the gold in a cave not far from the one where Amelia was born. That was the area where the Japanese had rampaged, killing scores of missionaries and refugees. They still controlled that territory.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  She wanted to warn him not to do it, to leave the gold where it lay until the war was over. For God’s sake, there was a submarine coming for them. But she had no right now to tell Spencer what to do.

  She said only, “Come with me tomorrow, Spencer. I’ll be glad of your company.”

  But Spencer shook his head; his light eyes glistened in a way Catharine knew.

  “I was assigned to bring the gold home. I’m going to do it.”

  Twenty days of struggle, days of slogging through the lowland jungle and pausing every few hours to burn off the leeches, bloated a disgusting bluish black with their blood; days of climbing, skirting thousand-foot drops and roaring falls that plummeted down mountain gorges; days of fording streams while crocodiles sunned on the banks, their eyes watchful. Every day Catharine remembered how Spencer had said Amelia was better, but still she wondered if her baby was alive.

  Catharine pressed forward, never admitting fatigue.

  They skirted Japanese-held towns and slipped alongside Japanese-patrolled roads. Twice patrols spotted them, but they escaped into thickets of jungle. They were a day’s march from the beach where the Americans were gathering when Catharine awoke with fever and chills and couldn’t rise.

  The guide knelt by her side. “We’re almost there.” He tried to lift Catharine.

  Catharine peered through eyes glazed by fever. She licked her lips. “Can’t.” It wasn’t surrender; it was the recognition of truth. Catharine burned with the hot onset of malaria; the fever alternated with racking chills. Through clenched teeth, she ordered the guide to go ahead. “Go on. Find Jack, and tell him.”

  The guide, Eduardo, found a deserted schoolhouse and fixed a pallet for Catharine. He placed water near her in a newly scoured milk can and promised to return with help.

  Catharine heard him dimly. The words were insubstantial and meaningless. She huddled against the schoolhouse wall and shook with chills or ached with fever. Pictures and places rolled in her mind. She slept and waked and slept again. The images moved in her mind: her father’s face, heavy with sorrow; Charles laughing, his blue eyes dancing with delight; Spencer and Peggy clinging to each other that bomb-splintered night on Corregidor; and Jack turning toward her, the love in his eyes bright and clear as the shining arch of the sky at a sun-flooded dawn.

  Spencer gestured impatiently for the cargadores to keep pace. He moved at a half trot at the head of their column. It wasn’t far now—another half mile at most. They hadn’t seen a sign of the Japs. He began to smile. By God, this would show them all. No one in Washington could say Spencer Cavanaugh didn’t complete an assignment. He would receive a commendation; there would be a promotion. He might even be given his choice of assignments. He would take London, of course. That would please Peggy. She loved London, even during the dark days of the Blitz. Or was it really that she loved him? He felt a swell of happiness. Peggy was safe in the States. He would go for her. This was going to turn out all right. It was going to be a triumph. And he’d manage in the Service without Catharine’s money. He could make it known, subtly, of course, that it had been a mismatch with Catharine, that she’d left him for another fellow, and he’d turned to an old friend. It wouldn’t be good that Peggy had been his secretary. Perhaps he should ask for an assignment in Washington until after the war, then request a posting where he’d never been.

  Light-arms fire rattled in the little valley as the Japanese patrol began shooting.

  The bullets stitched a bloody line across Spencer’s chest. As he fell, his mind formed one last thought—Peggy.

  God, it was so hot. That was fever; fever killed Charles. Amelia. That last time—she was hot, tiny and hot. Catharine tried to say her name. She heard the scratchy sound. “Amelia . . . please, God, please let Amelia live.”

  She shook with the terrible, racking chills of malaria, and at the same time sweat beaded her face, poured down her chest and back, bathed her legs. Catharine struggled to reach the water. She must drink water or she was going to die.

  Going to die . . . was she dead now . . . she and Charles . . . Amelia . . . please, God, let Amelia live . . .

  In the wavering mistiness, she saw Jack.

  She struggled to pull herself up and felt the strong grip of his hands—and she was in his arms . . . in his arms . . . where was Amelia?

  Jack, Jack. The dream was so real. No, this was no dream; Jack was here, his touch warm and loving. The feel of him told her the best truth, the most wonderful truth, even before he spoke.

  “Catharine, love, you’re all right—and Amelia’s all right. She’s fine. She’s wonderful. I’m going to take you to her.”

  “Amelia. My baby?”

  “Catharine, she’s all right,” he told her loud and clear. “Amelia’s with Sally and she’s eating and we have milk for her. Catharine, she has the brightest, bluest eyes, and she’s fine. They’re waiting for us, and I’ve got bearers and quinine and the sub will come tomorrow. Catharine, it’s all right. We’re going home. You and Amelia and I are going home.”

  The cold, damp air whipped across the slate-gray deck. Far above, the flag snapped against the gray sky. Catharine looked up and felt again the surge of thankfulness. An American flag. An American ship. They were lucky beyond measure, she and Jack and Amelia.

  A sharp, aching stab of sorrow twisted inside her. If only Spencer could be here, too, on his way home to Peggy. If only . . . Tears ached at the back of her throat. She had his last letter home, one written to Peggy. A bearer had brought his blood-stained pack to the Americans waiting for the submarine. That was all that was left of Spencer. But no, that wasn’t so. She had so many good memories of him, and she would always remember his bravery the night Amelia was born.

  Amelia stirred in her sleep. Catharine pulled Amelia’s blanket tighter to shield her from the sharp air. The baby sighed and made a contented, sucking sound.

  The fog parted and Catharine leaned forward.

  “There! I see it. Do you?”

  Jack’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

  The fog shifted ahead of them. Shafts of sunlight sparkled down on deep blue water. There, directly ahead, shining in the soft light, glistened the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Tears stung Catharine’s eyes. The Golden Gate. America. And the dawn of a new day for the three of them together—she and Jack and Amelia.

  Carolyn Hart (Oklahoma City, OK) is the winner of multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. She is a founding member of Sisters in Crime. Her prolific career has included the enduring Death on Demand series as well as the Henrie O and Bailey Ruth books. In 2007, she received the Lifetime Achievement Award at Malice Domestic.