Free Water From the Moon by Terese Ramin Page A

left."
    * * *
    Acasia ran from the clinic—from self–perception—like the plague. Vision came in fragments: red loincloths, yellow aprons, brown skin, eyes like coal, curious. Earth—gray, charred, loose—sifted over boots she hadn’t tied, drifted inside to get under her feet, scraping her toes and heels. She carried her pack on the right, the gun on her left, the tools of self–preservation snatched up out of a habit she would soon lose if Cameron stayed around for long.
    She ran away from him. Through the village, past cooking fires, between huts, away to the river, where the emerald eye of the forest stared at her, serenely unfathomable.
    She staggered to a stop and raised a clenched fist at the jungle, as though it were a person she could threaten with mayhem if it didn’t oblige her by getting out of the way. Unmoved, the forest stood its ground, hiding horror within beauty, keeping, like a miser’s treasures, Acasia’s nightmares somewhere behind the first tree.
    Small thoughts, like fledgling demons, skirted the periphery of her mind, not quite allowing her to grasp them. For years she had lived a life without continuity or center, with few real relationships, either with the people of the country she happened to be in or with her colleagues. She didn’t have the time, the trust or the inclination. Cameron was different. He always had been. She wanted to trust him, to relieve herself of the burden of responsibility, to escape the boundaries within which she lived.
    But she couldn’t allow that to happen. Damn it.
    She took a deep breath. It had to stop, this constant tug–of–war between her past and her present. She couldn’t function inside this emotional hurricane. And that, after all, was her job: to function when all else failed. Scattershot methods were only effective for fanatics and those with nothing to lose.
    A prickling sensation edged along the back of her neck, and she ducked down, scanning the area around her. A toucan screamed in the jungle, and she started, senses alerted by an old Indian law of the forest: When the toucan calls, danger is near.
    She inhaled deeply, expelling disquiet along with the pungent odor of the river, the riotous scent of the crushed flowers and grasses that fed the morning air. Nothing stirred but the river. The heat of the sun weighed her down as she continued to search her surroundings. She couldn’t see it yet, but it was there, the intangible threat, waiting like the air.
    She stooped slowly, reaching for her gun and pack, straining to see, to hear.
    "Casie."
    She jumped, but she kept her voice calm as she registered both Cam’s presence and an as–yet–invisible helicopter.
    "Cam, there you are. Fred fix your head?" She inserted just the right amount of concern into the question as she sifted quickly through the contents of her pack.
    Cameron remembered too much to be fooled by her tone. He knew she would be bothered by her display of vulnerability, would bury it under every bit of indifference at her disposal. But he’d be damned if he’d let her retreat now, just when they’d begun.
    He circled closer to her, speaking as he drew near. "It’ll do, which is probably not all Fred had in mind, but—" He stopped in front of her and caught agitation where he’d thought to find caustic self–contempt. She wasn’t playing a game; she was back to doing her job. He touched her shoulder.
    A funny little lump of emotion wedged itself in Acasia’s throat and made it difficult for her to swallow. If only they had time. She pulled a wrapped parcel out of the pack. Cameron felt a cold spot form in his stomach when he identified chamois cloth darkened by gun oil. Acasia didn’t even look at him as she unwrapped the small 9 mm semiautomatic and checked its load. She handed it to him, grip first. "Can you use this?"
    "On Fred?" The joke fell flat. He looked from the deadly little piece of equipment snugged in his hand to Acasia and back. "Why?"
    Acasia swung