A Place by the Bay

By Barbara J Duell

M.W. Pilgrim, renowned photojournalist, has spent the last fifteen years ‘shooting war’ in the killing fields worldwide―traveling light―her camera, a .45 semi-automatic and a bottle of Jack all stashed in her backpack. She’s suffered physical wounds and mental anguish, dodging bullets and bureaucrats as she documented the decimation of human life. But she’s always survived until one day in the summer of 1995, Madi finds herself stretched to the limits of endurance while filming the genocide in Bosnia, and her luck runs out.

Severely wounded, she’s evacuated to Landstuhl Medical Hospital in Germany, and her life hangs in limbo until trauma surgeon Neal Baker takes over her care. But common sense and caution have never been her way of life. Barely able to walk, Madi defies her doctors, a decision she soon regrets, and her actions will torment her, even after she returns home only to be caught up in a different kind of war that has invaded the streets of San Francisco, the thrown-aways kids that fight for survival, lost souls the world has forgotten.

Colonel Neal Baker, trauma surgeon, has dedicated his life to medicine. He’s fought anger and fatigue, operating in field hospitals never far from the raging battles lines where the wounded mount, and too many die or go mad.

Reassigned to Landstuhl, he faces another kind of anguish. Gone are the battlefields, but not the wounded who arrived daily, testing his skills and resolve, demanding he put aside his personal life until one night a woman arrives, airlifted from the carnage of Srebrenica―unconscious, broken and bleeding―and his skills are again put to the test.

Doctor-patient relations take on a new meaning as he disregards protocol and becomes infatuated yet frustrated by the tall blonde with penetrating blue-gray eyes. But it’s Madi’s sassy mouth that drives him wild and fuels his desire. Medical order means nothing to her; promises are broken, and her determination to do the impossible puts lives in jeopardy.

Blindsided by a passion that builds each day, Neal Baker joins Madi on a journey that speeds past chaos only to end in a final separation. Haunted by desire and doubt, he will travel halfway around the world to find her.

Caught up in her battle to save the lives of the lost and broken, he finds more, an awakening of hope―a gathering of love and pain―then trust that leads to a new beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara J Duell
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781734551433

Barbara J Duell

I married young, had four sons in four years, and started University. While wearing the hat of a stay-at-home mom at my all-male funny farm, I completed my postgraduate work. When the time came to cut the apron strings, I enter the corporate world. I spent several decades as CEO in the field of Medical Administration, and after retiring, took up the Law. I dealt primarily with Child Protective Services and Civil Rights and then joined the County Justice Court, served on the bench, and then retired, again.From an early age, reading has been my one constant, although I could not read, not actually. So I listened. It was not until middle school that I realized I was not stupid, just suffered from dyslexia but I kept trying because partnered with my desire to read was my passion for writing, which started as my unbridled imagination took flight. Simple tales spun from the depth of my spirit when I first learned to talk and told to all who would listen. Then I found a pencil and paper and learned to write, well, almost. No one could decipher what I scribbled, but I didn’t care; I just continued to dream and to write.I am part Cherokee, part Seneca; a nomad, and I seek the elusive shadow wind that calls my soul and carries me deep within the mystery of life. I have lived by the sea, high in the pine forest where I longed to soar with eagles; in a valley near the river’s edge next to God’s creatures. Now I live in the delicate land of the southwestern desert with my three small dogs who remind me each day how blessed we are.I welcome you to join me and my imagination on my Journey to Another Place.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to those who suffer

from PTSD. May you find peace.

And

To the lost tribes of humanity.

May you find a home.

Prologue

Journal entry ~ M.W Pilgrim,

Bosnia, late June 1995

I sit in the dark, yet my tiny headlamp offers enough light to scribble my thoughts on a piece of dirty paper I’ve found on the floor of this bombed-out dwelling. I’m so tired, cold and hungry, my mind racing and troubled. I want to sleep. Not now, maybe later. God help me; I need to write down what I’ve seen.

But I’m no good with words. My message comes from the camera lens, scenes of silent anguish, yet even the camera cannot accurately capture the horror of war… the sounds and bloodshed and the devastating chaos.

Death is all around me. No human should have to endure what I have seen. Yet, I must capture it all, record what I see, the stark images my camera validates for posterity, of lives lost, tortured—blown apart—the old and very young who will never know the glory of another sunrise. Faith and hope fight hate and hostility for control. I know this to be true each time I ask myself why I’m still alive.

I believe in God, in His goodness, but over the years, for almost half of my life, it’s been hard not to question why He allows war and carnage to rule the land. Yet I do.

I long for tears that never come, so I silently pray as my questions scream out in anger. Why do I live while so many die? Does God have a special plan for me? I ask myself this each time I sit in the dark or hide in a ditch filled with mud and blood and the scourge of death.

But like each day, I rise up and move on. This is my job. So I will pack away my prayers and questions and move on to the next killing field—head high and back straight—draped in the belief that He does have a plan.

Part One

The Conflict

Chapter One

San Francisco, July 1995

Paul Pilgrim turned on the TV before pouring his first cup of coffee. It was five o’clock in the morning. A freak storm had taken up residence over the city, and the rain continued its downpour, canceling another day of work on his current project.

When the phone rang, his first reaction was to let it ring. He was in no mood to have his ass chewed out by Clair Allison, the spoiled and demanding owner of the Telegraph Hill remodel. The word delay was not in her vocabulary, and she refused to understand that he could not start the next phase in the kitchen until the weather improved.

The TV blared, competing with his answering machine as a frantic voice demanded that Paul pick up. At the same time he realized it was Lidy yelling at him from the device, there was a knock on his front door.

Paul grabbed the phone as he walked toward the door. Lidy, what’s wrong? Wait, someone’s pounding on the door.

Madi’s been hurt! Oh, Paul, she’s been hurt again.

His heart caught in his chest. His breath stopped behind pressed lips that trembled with fear as he listened to Lidy’s cries. Pulling open the door, he recognized the head of WorldSpan wire service, the news bureau who sent his daughter all over the world and into harm’s way.

Motioning for Ryan Cohen to come in, Paul spoke into the phone. Lidy, Ryan is here. Let me call you back.

Paul, I know. Edward is here with me. They need us to go to Germany. That’s where they’ve taken her. Oh God, Paul, he won’t tell me anything, except that she’s alive. Damn it to hell, I hate this! She promised us. She promised she would be careful and not get hurt again.

Lidy, give me a minute. I’ll call you right back. Just hold on.

Ryan stood in front of the TV as the morning news recapped what had just happened in Srebrenica. The early morning reporter looked as if he had not slept in days, slurring his words at times as he fought to get the facts straight, calling this latest devastation acts of genocide.

Ryan switched off the TV. Let me tell you what we know, and then we need to get you and Lydia on a plane to Ramstein. It was bad, Paul. The worst part is it could have been avoided. Son of a bitch. This did not have to happen.

As Ryan started his briefing, Paul headed upstairs to his bedroom with Ryan in pursuit. We don’t know a lot, other than the fact that she’s stable. I’m sure Edward is giving this same information to Lydia right now. We’re waiting for an update.

Keep talking. I need to throw a few things in a bag so we can get out of here. Paul reached into his closet and grabbed a duffle bag, then spun around. "What the hell do you mean it didn’t have to happen? Who fucked up this time, Ryan? I thought you told me after the ’94 fiasco that Madi wouldn’t have to go to any more hot spots.

Shit, she’s been shot twice; a shattered leg, two concussions, and she’s had two colleagues die in her arms. And now this. Lidy said Madi was hurt. How is she hurt? Tell me the truth. Son of a bitch, Ryan, what the hell happened?

Two hours later, Paul Pilgrim and Lydia Cunningham-Kent sat side by side as the private jet lifted off, away from San Francisco and heading toward Germany and their daughter, M.W. Pilgrim, world-renowned war correspondent and photojournalist who’d been shot in the crossfire outside a refugee camp in Srebrenica sixteen hours ago.

At least WorldSpan hadn’t wasted any time getting them to their daughter. Paul couldn’t fault the organization or their resources that allowed them to hop on a private plane and not fight public transportation.

Lidy had downed two shots of brandy as soon as it was allowed and now sat quietly, eyes closed, twisting a tissue into shreds. As Paul tried to stay calm, knowing this was only the beginning, his mind raced back over the last thirteen years.

Madi had covered human rights issues and wars in Rwanda, Algeria, Bosnia and Herzegovina and most of the Western Balkans. She’d been in East Timor, Israel, Zaire. You name it. If civilians were starving or being tortured and killed, Madi was there, crisscrossing the world with her camera bag, a backpack stuffed with a change of clothes, her gun, and a bottle of whiskey.

His daughter’s work was famous. Not so much for her written words; they were few and to the point. Her unwanted fame came from her photographs. Silently they told a vivid, devastating tale—heart-wrenching facts printed in magazines and newspapers that opened one’s eyes to the horrors of war.

Madi had a way of capturing emotions on film—some raw and gut-wrenching, others buried deep, yet pulled to the surface—framing scenes that needed no words. She’d left home at seventeen and never looked back, traveling the world with Robin Bouchard until his death three years ago.

Robin was French, a photojournalist like Madi who couldn’t stay away from any country where trouble simmered. They had a talent for getting there first, capturing the truth before it boiled over into chaos or was hidden and mislabeled by the local government. Robin had taught Madi well; he was her mentor, and Paul imagined, probably more.

Madi had been alone in Sarajevo in 1994, where she’d almost died. A mortar bomb had exploded in the central open-air market square, killing sixty people and wounding over two hundred more. Her right leg had been shattered, and she would walk with a slight limp and carry shrapnel still lodged under a six-inch scar on her back for the rest of her life, but she had lived.

Somehow WorldSpan had gotten her out of Bosnia and into Germany. But because of a severe concussion, Ryan had called Paul and Lidy, something he’d been told never to do. It was only then, during her long convalescence, that they’d learned about her other injuries.

Stop it, Paul told himself. That’s all in the past. She’s alive, and that’s all that matters. And until she recovered from these new injuries, he would stow away the plan he’d formed on the way to the airport. If she wouldn’t listen to reason, he’d duct-tape her to his side and bring her home. Yeah, right. If only it were that simple. But he had to try.

As soon as the plane touched down at Zweibrücken Airport, Ryan’s counterpart in Germany had them through immigration, into the black Mercedes and on their way to Landstuhl Medical Center.

Paul was exhausted but edgy when they arrived. As they’d driven past Ramstein Air Force Base, he rolled down the window, unconsciously counting the C-130s lined up on the tarmac. The giant gray birds flew nonstop at times, moving the wounded out of harm’s way and into the safe arms of Landstuhl Hospital and, God willing, their best chance to live.

He wondered which one of these planes had brought his daughter out of the madness of war to safety. Paul silently offered his prayer of thanks to the crew that had given his daughter a chance to live, even though he knew the road to recovery would probably be a long one. He welcomed the dampness in the air. The rain had stopped, but the low, dark clouds promised more.

Paul, I’m cold. Please close the window. Lidy huddled into him, her request hardly a whisper.

Sorry, babe. Do you want my jacket?

"No, just hold me. Tell me Madi is going to be all right. Jesus, Paul, where did we go so wrong? Why couldn’t she have just grown up and gotten married and had a bunch of kids like a normal girl? She never needed to do this. My God, she had everything.

She has grandmother’s trust fund, and when we’re gone, she’ll inherit both our fortunes. I’d give her all I have right now if she’d just stay home. I mean, okay—we were wild and fought the system, but we left all that behind us while she was still so young. What derailed her? Why?

"Hush, Lidy, and listen to me. We both know Madi was never young. She had the equivalent of a college education before she was ten, plus a passion for learning more. Madi is and has always been an old soul.

"Like it or not, she’s never wanted or needed our advice, much less our money. But I promise you this. I intend to do everything possible to convince her there is more to life than what she has been living.

"I’m going to try to change her outlook on life. I don’t know how I’m going to do this. Our daughter has always listened to us, to our fears and concerns, then gone her own way. We failed to influence her decisions when she was seventeen, so there’s no reason to think that, now, at twenty-nine, she’s going to listen to us.

But I promise you I am going to try. Honest to God, Lidy, I can’t stand to see her hurt anymore. Plus, her guardian angel has got to be worn out. Madi has more than used up any special protection she’s gotten up to now.

Chapter Two

Landstuhl Medical Center, Germany

Paul held the umbrella over Lidy’s head as they ran from the car to the front door of the medical center. Another colleague of Ryan’s pulled him aside for a moment and gave him an update, only part of which Paul heard.

Just like a year ago, the driveway was full of the boxy American Blue Bird buses. Although bright yellow, they were not school buses; they carried the wounded from the airport on the final leg of their journey for survival.

As they waited for Ryan, Paul watched them move on, stopping at the emergency room entrance where the hospital advance guard rushed to the rear door of each vehicle, ready to offload the broken bodies.

Paul knew that several of those on board would be unconscious, many covered in bloodied bandages and still hooked to machines. The light rain had turned into a torrent. As stretchers were lifted out of the bus, nurses jockeyed to cover the wounded with large umbrellas.

He also knew that the four men who moved forward to personally greet each of the wounded, searching frantically to find a first name, were chaplains. It didn’t matter if the injured were awake or in a coma, each patient was reassured by these soldiers who worked for a higher power that they would not be alone. They were safe now.

Ryan ended his conversation and maneuvered Paul and Lidy through the front lobby toward the elevator and up a few floors to Madi’s room. Lidy faltered and would have dropped to the floor if Paul had not held her by the arm as they entered their daughter’s room. The eerie sound coming from the monitoring machines joined with the flighty shadows in the semi-darkened space creating an atmosphere of disquieting foreboding.

The room smelled antiseptic, sterile and austere, and Paul wanted to cry. His baby lay still, wrapped in cotton sheets and bandages. The beeping monitors magnified the chill of the room. For a moment, Paul wanted to run, to rewind the clock back to a time when his little girl stood upright, a time when laughter and fresh air filled her life and not another hospital room where IVs and tubes covered her beautiful broken body.

A nurse entered behind them. Hi, I’m Ruth. I need to do all that stuff we nurses do. You can stay if you want. Just step over there, please.

Paul pushed his dark hair off his forehead. Is she conscious? What I mean is, can I talk to my daughter? Tell her we’re here?

Sir, we have her heavily sedated, but when I’m through, you can speak to her. Yes, talk to your daughter. I can’t guarantee she’ll answer, but I’m betting she will hear you, and I think it might make her feel better knowing you are here. Doctor Baker will be here soon if you have any more questions.

Paul, I need to sit down. I’ll be right outside. In the hall. Lidy pulled out of his grip and ran from the room. Paul wished there was some way he could comfort Lydia, his Lidy. She had never been any good at this. Lidy was compassionate, a genuinely caring woman, but she simply had never been helpful in an emergency.

I’m going to sit over there, just for a moment. She pointed to a small alcove about twenty paces from Madi’s door.

Paul?

He turned his head to the voice and saw Ryan coming down the hall with a tall, rugged-looking man who looked like he’d not slept in months. His gait was uneven, his shoulders stooped, and his eyes reflected fatigue and pure misery.

Paul, this is Phillip Chauvel. Phillip is a journalist with TF1, the French TV station. He was with Madi when she was injured, actually before that. They’d been together about a week before she fell. Phillip thought you might want to know what happened. He’d like to do it now because he’s due to leave for France soon.

Of course! My God, we’d be grateful for any information.

Ryan looked toward Lydia. I’ve sent Jim for something to drink and some food. We can use a room down the hall where it’s quiet. Do you want to get Lydia?

I’ll tell her where we’re going, but I doubt she’ll want to come. Give me a moment.

He was right. You go, Paul. You can tell me later. I’ll stay close to Madi’s room in case there’s any change. Go on.

Jim Austin, Ryan’s man in Germany, followed them into the private room, pushing a cart filled with rolls, cheese, and sliced ham. He’d also brought coffee, beer, and a bottle of whiskey.

Phillip found a seat in the corner, closed his eyes, and stretched his legs out in front of him—his head resting on the back of the couch. I believe I can smell the whiskey. Would you mind pouring me a large drink?

Ryan jumped up to fill the request. Here you go, fellow. Can I get you something to eat?

Not now. Just refill this glass, then give me a minute. He drained the liquid without opening his eyes. Phillip held the glass out for someone to take and refill, then started to talk.

"You know, every man who’s ever met her, or even heard of her, fell a little bit in love with our Madi. Of course, it never hurt that she always had a bottle of Jack Daniels with her. She hardly ever drank, just made sure we all got our share. Even though Madi was younger than most of us, she took care of everyone, anyone needing help. Food, a drink, or just a hug. She was all woman, but she never asked for or wanted special treatment. My God, she could outwork all of us.

And it was no different after Robin died. Madi let us know right away that she was not interested in having anyone fill his shoes. Independent as hell. That’s Madi. My God, what a team! You never saw one without the other. No one ever matched what those two brought to the world.

The three other men in the room sat quietly. Phillip held the glass to his mouth, rubbing it back and forth across chapped lips. All of us would have taken a bullet for her. But of course, she’d get really pissed and tell us to fuck off if we offered to take the lead. Especially if she thought we were trying to protect her. His last words came out low, a whisper. Then Phillip sat up straight, drank the whiskey, and started to tell his story.

"No one gave a shit about what was happening near Srebrenica. The U.N. said they had the area secured. Fucking lie. Bosnian Serbs just marched in and overwhelmed a battalion of Dutch peacekeepers. They loaded up all the women and girls and put them on buses, sending them off to the Bosnian-held territory where they were raped… probably worse, then murdered.

"The men and boys were either killed on the spot or bussed off to the killing fields. What’s the difference, you might think. Shot on the spot or shipped off, I mean, dead is dead. No, the mutilation they suffered is beyond description. Madi has the pictures to prove it. She figured over fifteen thousand were murdered there in the beginning. But it got worse. Holy Jesus and Mother Mary, you can’t imagine how much worse.

"Madi had befriended this young boy. He helped her during a bombing. No, he saved her life that day, and when he spoke to her, he knew English. Broken, to be sure, but good enough, and they were always together after that. She paid him to be her interpreter.

"Moshe was a rebel fighter, but his main quest was to find food and water for what was left of his family and those who had no one. Madi shared everything she had and managed to scrounge more, but it was never enough. So many died of starvation, and the world did not give a shit. Just went about their fucking comfortable lives.

"But two days ago… well, this was the last straw. The newswires are calling it the final act of genocide, the mass killings. Madi called it mass murder. But the only thing she or any of us could not believe was how it happened.

"We all expected shit to happen, but we never imagined the peace-keepers would assist the Serbs, but they did. There were roughly twenty to twenty-five thousand refugees from Srebrenica gathered around the Protčari area. They were told to go to the U.N. base, which was now operated by a Dutch battalion. They let some in, but most were left to fend for themselves outside the locked gates. Son of a bitch, just think about those numbers. These people were hungry, so tired they could hardly stand and scared beyond death. Panic ruled.

"Madi was using her new little digital Casio. I think she had three of them stashed in her pockets. The bastards had taken her other camera three days before, but with the Casio, she could change the flash drive on the go, and if they tried to take the camera, she’d mastered removing the disc before handing over the device. Madi was hell-bent on getting it all down. She could even record with it—one hell of a camera.

"Anyway, some of those who had gotten inside the fence were thrown out. The fucking Dutch announced over a loudspeaker that people were to start leaving in groups of twenty. I mean, these poor souls had trusted the U.N. They were supposed to help them, but when the Dutch kicked them out through the gates, the Serbs waited. And like always, they separated the men and boys from the women and girls.

"Shit, they did this right outside the gate with the Dutch peacekeepers looking on. Madi and Moshe had moved toward the camp with those miserable, hungry souls. These people were not soldiers. They were trying to survive—to find water and food—just to stay alive.

"The Srebrenicans had handed over what weapons they had in return for what they thought would be international security. What a travesty! They were fed to the enemy by those who were supposed to keep them safe.

"I think you already know that Madi has a way of capturing the essence of life, but hard as it was, she also filmed the horror that walked with us all that day. I don’t know how she continued to do this. We witnessed carnage no one can imagine. Yet, she captured it all.

"A journalist from Spain, who was closer to her than I was, told me after we got to safety that Madi and Moshe were near the front gate when one of the Chetnik pulled a young girl, hell, maybe only eight or nine, away from her mother. He slapped her a few times, tore off her dress, and then told her brother to rape her. God damn, her brother was not much older, maybe even younger. Of course, the poor kid didn’t want to, probably didn’t know how to try, so the soldier cut the boy’s throat. Right there in front of his mother and sister, then stripped the girl and started to rape her himself.

"That’s when Madi lost it. I was about twenty yards behind her, but when I heard her screaming and then the shots, I started running toward the front.

Because she’s so tall, I could see her, with tears running down her face. I was shouting, running, trying to get through the chaos. I guess the Chetnik saw her taking pictures. Oh my God, that’s when Madi’s rage overpowered her need to film, and she started hitting the soldier. When he slapped her, Moshe jumped in between her and the Chetnik bastard just as I and two others in our group got to them.

Paul unconsciously gouged the palm of his hand with his fingernail as he sat in silence, listening to the Frenchman recount what had happened in what seemed like another world—one without reason or hope. He unclenched his fist and reached for a napkin, and blotted the blood. He had no idea what time it was, sometime in the afternoon, but if he’d ever needed a drink, he needed one now.

Sorry, guys, I have to stop for a moment. Maybe I better eat something. I am so fucking tired I’m about to fall asleep, but I need to finish this now.

I’ll get it; sit still. Paul forgot his own need for a drink and filled a plate with cheese, meat and a couple of soft rolls. He took the food to the couch. Want another drink?

Sure, I’m not driving anywhere. If I can hold out for a while, I can sleep on the plane.

The room was silent as they watched Phillip try to eat a piece of cheese, but after a couple of bites, he put the plate on the couch.

"Guess I’m not hungry, and I sure as hell don’t need any more to drink. There’s not much more to tell. Well, there is, but I can’t do it now. I’ll tell you how she got hurt, then I want to see her. I want to say goodbye, then I need to go home.

"When Moshe stepped in front of her, he took the bullet meant for Madi. He died instantly, thank God, but then, at that range, who could miss? Madi fell to the ground with him, holding Moshe against her chest. The Chetnik grabbed her hair and tried to pull her up. That’s when she went crazy. I will never forget how she fought, punching, kicking and screaming until she was shot in the leg.

"There were about six of us, and we managed to overpower him and get her to her feet. We half carried, half dragged her toward the woods. Madi fought us. She didn’t want to leave Moshe, but she finally realized we needed to get the hell out of there. We ran like hell, taking turns holding her up as she hopped on one foot. After about—I don’t know, maybe half an hour—we linked up with a band of rebels who said they could get us to safety. We thought we were home free, but we ran into a Serb patrol. They started firing. Madi took a bullet and fell hard, but she was alive. Two of our colleagues died. The rebels fired back, and one of them led us out another way.

We tried to stop the bleeding. We made a sling out of our jackets to carry her, then kept running. I don’t know, maybe an hour later, we linked up with some NATO soldiers, and the rest is history. They called in support and got her to a local doctor who patched her up enough to get her here.

Paul had started to silently cry, and inside he was shaking so hard he doubted he could talk, even though he knew he needed to thank Phillip for what had apparently cost the Frenchman almost more than he had to give. Paul stood and moved to the couch, then bent down in front of Phillip. What can I do for you? Please, there must be something.

Just get her the fuck out of here and never let her come back.

Phillip squeezed Paul’s shoulder as the two weary men gazed at each other while Ryan and Jim silently watched.

I need to see her. I want to tell her goodbye, and then I have a plane to catch. I mean it, Paul, get her out of here.

The four men moved down the hall toward Madi’s room. Lidy still sat outside the door, eyes closed, and Paul knew just by how she clenched her hands that she’d retreated internally, trying to cope, hoping to shut out reality. In Madi’s room, the nurse had opened the blinds on the windows. Although it was still raining, a sliver of light filtered into the room.

Phillip walked to the bed and took Madi’s hand in his. He stroked the hair by the sides of her cheek, then bent and kissed her. "Get well, mon amour. Go home; you have done enough. Go find some happiness; you have more than earned it. I love you. Forever, I have loved you. Be safe.

Ryan, get me to my plane, please.

Chapter Three

Paul looked at his watch, closed his tired eyes, and tried to convert it to local time. They had left San Francisco around seven in the morning. The flight had taken at least nine hours, add an hour to get to the hospital, another with Phillip. Paul had only left his daughter’s bedside long enough to take Lidy to the hotel Ryan had secured for them, get her fed and into bed, then return to the hospital. He’d timed it, only two hours, so it was now probably close to midnight.

Ryan had left over an hour ago, telling him to go back to the hotel and get some rest. But Paul didn’t want to leave her. Although Madi hadn’t moved on her own nor said anything after Phillip had left, she’d squeezed her father’s hand. It was enough. Paul felt Madi knew he was there by her side.

Hello, I’m Doctor Baker.

Paul turned to the voice belonging to a man dressed in green scrubs, with a crew cut head of gray hair atop a face covered with a two-day-old beard. I’m Paul, Paul Pilgrim, Madi’s father.

I know who you are, and you need to get out of here and get some rest. Let me explain. It might save us a lot of time arguing. While you were gone, our gal here took a turn for the worst. More mental than physical. Hold on, don’t start with your questions, just let me explain, but let’s step out into the hall.

Paul’s eyes shot between Madi and the doctor, then, hesitating only a moment, he followed the green scrubs to the hallway. What are you saying?

"Although we expect it, we never get used to witnessing what our patients go through. Although sedated, your daughter, in layman’s terms, came unglued, became lost in her nightmares. She started thrashing in bed, pulled out her IV lines. Even strapped in traction, she tried to get out of bed before the nurses could get to her.

"Mr. Pilgrim, your daughter has experienced more raw trauma in the past few days than most of us will see in a lifetime, and I’m not kidding you; it’s going to take that long for her to find peace, if ever. She’s broken and shot up, but we’ve taken care of that. Your daughter will heal, but this is different. It’s called PTSD.

"I’m no expert; no one really is, although we’re fighting like hell to learn more. We so-called healers have dealt with this anomaly since the first time man took up his sword and slaughtered his neighbor. But we continue to search for answers, especially now with all the damned wars that keep filling our hospitals. We can sew up a wound, rebuild a limb, reroute an intestinal tract, but we can’t crawl inside the brain and cut away all the horror that strips them of their sanity, and only God knows how they manage to live through it.

But what we do know is that Madi will relive what she’s seen over and over again. Her mind will race anxiously with wild and uncontrollable fear. She’ll relive the pain, and each traumatic experience will invade her sleep; that is, if she can sleep at all.

Doctor Baker pulled away from the wall and ran his hand over his stubbled face. That said, we can’t let her hysterics undo what we’ve surgically repaired, so I’ve placed her in an induced controlled coma. Like I said, go get some rest if you can. We’ll monitor her, and hopefully, we can bring her back as she heals, but that will take some time. When that does happen, she’s going to need you alert and decisive.

Paul saw Jim Austin waiting in the lobby on the main floor of the hospital. Although he felt like ramming his fist through a wall, Paul forced a smile as he followed Jim to the waiting car and his ride to the hotel.

You ever get to go to bed? I think my command of the German language is good enough to hail a cab.

No way. I’ve known Madi for years, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her or her family. But if you’re going to stay put until the morning, then I’ll go to bed. Here’s my card with my phone number. Just call me in the morning when you’re ready to go back to the hospital.

Deal. I’ve been thrown out and ordered to get some sleep, so let’s go.

Paul quietly opened the door to the three-room suite. He didn’t want to wake Lidy, but she stood by the French doors leading to the balcony, with a drink in her hand.

Did you get any sleep?

Not much. How’s Madi?

There have been some complications. Let me go to the bathroom, and then I’ll explain.

Paul crossed the sitting room and went into the bedroom on the right side of the entryway. By habit, he knew this would be his room. Lidy always wanted the bedroom on the left. He pulled off his jacket and shirt and splashed cold water on his face and chest, then leaned on the counter, fighting back a scream that would have raised the dead if allowed to surface.

He was so tired. Drained and torn apart in so many pieces, he doubted he’d ever be whole again. His eyes ached, swollen, and sunk deep atop dark circles fed by lack of sleep and the anguish of what he had just been told.

Now, he had to tell Lidy, a chore he didn’t relish. He pulled a T-shirt out of his duffle bag and walked back to the sitting room. Lidy was on the phone. Paul thought about returning to his room to give her privacy, then changed his mind and poured water into a crystal glass.

Well, for your information, it’s after midnight here. I had no idea when you would return. I had to leave, so I left you a note.

Paul watched as Lidy stared at the ornate ceiling, her hand squeezing the phone cord as she listened to her husband’s words from across the ocean.

Roger, listen to… ROGER, shut the fuck up and listen to me. I had to leave. Please, do not repeat, do not tell me again about how Madi is not your daughter or your problem. And I thank God for that. For the last time, I have no idea when I will be home. I’m going to hang up because I do not want to talk to you right now. And she did.

Trouble in paradise?

Don’t get cute, Paul. It doesn’t suit you.

Before he could answer, the phone rang. Paul pointed to the phone. I’m sure that’s for you.

You answer it; I don’t want to talk to him. Not tonight, maybe never.

If I answer the phone, it will only piss him off.

I really don’t give a fig.

Well, I’m not going to answer it, but tell me, Lidy. Tell me again why you married him.

Lidy drained the last of her drink, then poured another. Why? You ask me why?

Yeah. I never understood what you saw in him. In the ten years you’ve been married, I doubt you’ve spent more than half that time in the same place. Not much fun, that, I would think.

Oh, Paul, only you would have to ask. I was running away from you, and I finally found a man so completely unlike you. A man without morals, integrity, one who’d never done an honest day’s work in his life. Ah, but a man so eager to do as I asked.

Or as he was told to do.

Yes, I told him to jump, and he asked how high. What a stupid cliché, but it worked, but only in private. Roger likes to play the prince when in public, and as it costs me nothing I play along. And of course, he loved my money. But last year, well, that’s when the game fell apart. The phone started to ring again. Six rings, then it stopped.

Lidy, I don’t want to know any of this. Not now. Not ever, actually. All I can think about right now is our daughter. And…

"I know. I feel the same, but it’s because of Madi that I’ve turned away from the little that Roger and I shared. He wants me to change the language of my trust. He wants to be named sole heir, also appointed trustee before I’m gone as if he knows I will go before him.

Paul, Roger wants me to cut Madi out. He tells me she has plenty without my money, that she’ll probably get herself killed, then I’ll feel remorse and donate my money to some charity in her name. Her breath caught somewhere between her anger and tears. That’s what he said.

For the fourth time in less than ten minutes, the phone rang again. Lidy just looked at the phone, then told Paul, You answer it.

His fist clenched, and he felt the wound in his hand start to bleed. And again, he wanted to hit something. And just what do you want me to tell Roger, Lidy? That you’ve gone to bed?

I really don’t care.

Are you going back to bed?

No. I’m going to fill the big tub with scalding hot water, and without drowning myself, I’m going to close my eyes and dream of when my little girl and I shared a better time. A time before my brilliant, beautiful daughter learned how shallow I was—totally lacking in courage. Before she realized that I lived without compassion for those less fortunate. And I’m going to try to forget the day she threw out her chin, swallowed her tears, and told us goodbye.

Lidy kissed Paul on his rough cheek and left the room. He watched her go. Beautiful, blonde Lidy, still dressed in her St. John’s navy blue and cream-colored knit suit and stylish heels. No jeans and tennis shoes for gorgeous Lydia Cunningham-Kent.

So many times over the years, she’d been mistaken for Maria Gray, whose picture graced the St. John’s ads. Even after the plane ride and a day sitting on a metal chair in the drafty hallway of the hospital, she looked like she’d just stepped out of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door Spa.

Only after she’d left the room did Paul realize he had not shared with Lidy what Doctor Baker had told him. It could wait. He would tell her in the morning.

Paul picked up the phone and called the front desk. Ja, das ist Zimmer 525. Oh, you speak English. Great. Please hold all calls until further notice unless they come from the Landstuhl hospital or from WorldSpan. Thank you.

Chapter Four

The hot water flowing from the shower head beat into his back. Paul rotated his neck, twisting, silently demanding his muscles relax and work with him. This morning he felt drained—centuries older than his forty-eight years—a deep strain of exhaustion he’d not felt in years. No, not years.

It was last year, early February, and just like yesterday, he’d gotten a call from Ryan telling him Madi was in the hospital in Germany, her condition dire.

Paul slammed his fist against the side of the shower; he shouldn’t go back there, to that gut-wrenching time when they didn’t know if Madi would live or die. But she had lived. Left with a slight but permanent limp, her back still full of shrapnel, but after months in the hospital, Madi had gotten well enough to leave and come home. She’d survived, again.

The biggest fight Paul ever had with his headstrong daughter was one year and several months after the Sarajevo bombing when she told him she was going back to Bosnia, to a place once called paradise. No matter how he’d ranted—yelled and called her stupid, selfish, even crazy—she’d gazed into his dark eyes and asked him to please listen to her. And he had. Paul would never again feel so lost yet so proud.

Paul, I have to go back, she’d said. I know you don’t understand, but if you will pour us a drink, I would like for you to sit beside me, and I’ll try to explain; I want to tell you a story, two, actually.

He got out of the shower and pulled on the hotel’s robe. Paul knew he needed to get dressed and get to the hospital, not linger on what had occurred last year, but when he reached for his clothes, his thoughts again changed venues—transporting him back to another space and time.

Paul could still see that night, her face—deep ocean-blue eyes that reflected life and pain—yet an unquenchable warmth, eyes that darkened when she was troubled or sad. He doubted he would ever forget those moments, sitting so close, her hand on his knee, or her words, knowing that when she called him Paul, he needed to listen.

"Sarajevo is such a beautiful place, or it used to be. Would you believe that some of the people I met, even with all the carnage, still try to smile? They share what little they have, especially their local folklore. It survives, passed from one generation to the next, some of it, anyway.

"The night before the market was bombed, I was asked to share a meal with a local family. Simple food, then a bit later, an elderly grandpa wanted to tell me a tale. Not just for me, but for the little children huddled in their one-room home.

"One of their oldest stories is about the Goat’s Bridge. As the story goes, an old herder was tending his goats by the river Miljacka when one of them started digging in the ground. Wanting to be on his way, he walked over for a closer look, and what do you think he found?

"Daddy, his goat had dug up sacks of gold, and without a thought, he knew what he must do. He would build a great bridge over the river, and for years that same bridge would be the main crossing for travelers on their way to Istanbul. Then the old man told another story, and this tale is not folklore but the truth.

"It’s a story of Sarajevo’s Romeo and Juliet. During the Serbian siege of Sarajevo, in the spring of 1993, a young couple fell in love, a Serb boy and a Bosnian girl. This relationship was forbidden, so they decided to flee the city. They got as far as what we call Sniper’s Alley—a no man’s land—before the boy was shot and the girl wounded by the Serbs. She could have run away, but rather than flee, she stayed by her lover’s side, where she too died. As I said, Daddy, this story is not a myth; their names were Boško Brkić and Admira Ismić, and they just wanted to live and love, but they both died on the bridge, the Goat’s Bridge.

"I have to go back because the world needs to know, to see, hopefully through my photographs, what is happening there. I want the world to know about these people, not just the mangled and mutilated bodies, images that haunt me every time I close my eyes. Oh, dear God, the vision of young girls tied to a wire fence for the soldiers to use… to rape until they die, then covered with gas and set on fire.

I want to show the world the courage and passion that fuel the souls of those who have lost everything, the hopeless who continued to believe that someone might finally care and offer to help. I must… I have to go back.

Sometime during the night, the rain had stopped, and now, sitting in a chair in a German hotel, still not dressed, Paul’s pulse accelerated. His lungs filled as the act of hyperventilation blurred his vision, and he knew better than to try to stand. Slivers of early morning light that eased through the window found him shaking and battling with the lingering thoughts of that night so many months ago. And as he sought the inner strength he knew he possessed, one that would lead him back to a balanced perspective, Paul also knew that if Madi had known that night, sitting in the safety of his home atop Russian Hill in San Francisco that she would again be wounded, she would still have gone back.

Room service had come and gone. He’d called out that coffee was ready, but Lidy told him to go away. She had never been a morning person, and after all the drama last night, added to her consumption of German brandy, Paul doubted she’d be up for hours. So he’d called Jim, and now he sat next to his daughter.

Doctor Baker had not left the floor when Paul first arrived, so before going to her room, they found a quiet corner where he brought Paul up to date on Madi’s progress.

"She’s a remarkable woman. Last night after you left, I sat by her bed for a while and talked to her. I know that sounds strange, but over the years and especially working in this arena, I find a sense of peace talking to my unconscious patients. The nurse had just completed charting her vitals, and in the semi-darkened room, I told Madi all we’d done to her, then what I’d done; that I had, in essence, knocked her out for a short time. I held her hand and asked her to work with me—to try to forget all the horror she’d seen. But then, I said more.

I told her I knew she was struggling, that we all were, and although I was bushed, so tired I could hardly stand, I would not stop trying to help her find peace. Paul, may I call you Paul?

Of course. Doctor Barker, I’m so lost here. It’s like walking through hell, trying to dodge buckets of brimstone. Have you seen her records?

"Sure, there’s so much documentation it fills three charts. I’ve spent hours going over your daughter’s medical records, and all the time I was reading, I kept asking myself the same question. What in the hell is she doing here? Why isn’t Madi back in the States