A King's Ransom (31 page)

Is that thing over there edible?

The piercing eyes glowed brighter, and finally they blinked. A chill raced through Matthew; fear gripped his heart.

Do anacondas have eyelids?

He suddenly heard breathing - his own. He didn't dare speak aloud, but silently he was talking himself out of his worst nightmare, assuring himself that it couldn't be an anaconda, that it was too cold up here in the mountains.

Unless JoaquAn brought it here.

It would be the ultimate execution, a wrestling match with a hungry eighteen-foot snake. Ten horrific minutes of rolling in a hole as this monster coiled around his body and squeezed the life out of him, its massive jaws locked on to his head in a desperate effort to swallow him whole.

Matthew was shaking, and the creature seemed to sense his fright. Slowly, not more than a centimeter at a time, the eyes were creeping closer.

It was decision time. If he burst out of the hole, he could well be shot by the guards. If he stayed put, God only knew what was in store for him.

Carefully he sat up, drew his knees in toward his body, and planted his feet on the ground. On the mental count of three he summoned all his strength and shot straight up from the hole. His hands broke through the branches first, sending the makeshift roof splintering in all directions. A screeching noise followed him out of the hole, which only propelled him faster. He was clawing at stalks of bamboo, giant leaves, anything to get a grip and pull himself out.

Don't shoot! he shouted, fearing it would look like an escape. He rolled to the ground outside his hole, tangled in the wet remnants of the thatched roof. He was swinging wildly in self-defense, not sure where those red eyes had gone. Something was at his ankle, then at his leg, and climbing up his belly. He rolled frantically and shouted, Don't shoot!

A gun went off, and a hot, red explosion covered his torso.

ANo se mueve! the guard shouted.

Matthew froze, obeying the command to stop, though his chest heaved in panicky breaths. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the daylight, and the glob of flesh beside him eventually came into focus.

It was the biggest dead rat he'd ever seen.

JoaquAn and another guerrilla stood over him, laughing. Behind them were five others nearly falling over in hysterics.

Matthew was fuming. Is this your idea of a joke? Turn a rat loose in my hole?

JoaquAn's laughter faded. His eyes turned cold, colder than the rat's. Your hole? he said, glaring.

The others fell silent. Matthew stared back, but he couldn't match the black intensity in JoaquAn's eyes. He suspected drugs.

It's not your hole, said JoaquAn. You have nothing here. Not even this hole. Do you understand?

Matthew was silent.

I asked you a question.

He still refused to answer. JoaquAn raised his rifle and took aim at Matthew's chest. Answer me, he said harshly. Or you will own this hole. Forever.

Matthew stared down the long steel barrel. Finally he said, I understand.

JoaquAn jerked the rifle and fired off two quick rounds that splattered the rat beyond recognition, most of the mess landing on Matthew. JoaquAn and his cronies laughed in chorus.

You smell better now, he said.

Matthew didn't doubt it. After all that time in the hole, he felt like a human pest strip.

JoaquAn shouted to his men in Spanish. Matthew didn't catch it all, but it had something to do with the river. And he thought he heard the name Nisho, the young Japanese widow. With the guerrillas' reaction, he knew that he'd heard correctly. Two of them howled and started racing back to camp.

Nisho! they shouted, sounding more stoned than ever. Nishooooooo!

They reached the river in two groups. Three armed guerrillas led Matthew to the bank. Ten meters behind were JoaquAn, another guerrilla, and Nisho.

The makeup of the group gave Matthew concern. JoaquAn, he'd decided, was just a sick sadist. Two of the guerrillas were bona fide sharpshooters, just itching for the chance to pop someone's skull. Two others were confirmed hell-raisers who passed the boredom at camp with drugs and silly target-practice. They'd get crazy out of their minds and shoot mice with AK-47s, ant mounds with .45-caliber Lugers. Today they seemed more wired on basuco than Matthew had ever seen them. All the way to the river they'd been loud and pushing each other. It was a dangerous combination: drugs, fully loaded automatic weapons, and a bunch of dead-end teenagers with zero respect for life.

Stop, JoaquAn said in Spanish.

They'd reached a calm eddy in the river behind a huge fallen tree and a boulder as big as a house. The guerrillas positioned themselves along the bank, two on the log, two others atop the boulder.

You can bathe here, said JoaquAn.

Matthew was more than ready. He started to remove his clothes, then went to the river's edge and tested the water. The cold was just about unbearable, so he retained a layer of clothing for warmth. He waded knee-deep into the eddy, hand-washing himself without full immersion, thankful to clean off the thick layer of filth that had crusted his clothes and body.

You, too, said JoaquAn. He was speaking to Nisho, who had not yet moved. With some reluctance she stepped toward the river and dipped her toe in.

Clothes off, said JoaquAn.

The guerrillas were watching and grinning, almost giddy with anticipation. Matthew could see the fear in Nisho's eyes, and the direction this seemed to be taking had him worried.

It's too cold, she said.

Leave your clothes, he said sternly. Now!

Slowly she removed her jacket and sweater, and then her boots. She was down to a blouse and pants.

The rest, he said.

She'll freeze! shouted Matthew.

One of the sharpshooters fired a warning shot. It splashed in the water just inches from Matthew's knee. He backed off.

Nisho looked nearly paralyzed with fright. Her eyes darted from one gawking guerrilla to the next as her trembling hand unbuttoned her blouse. The catcalls started. The show was in full swing.

Matthew turned his gaze toward the guerrillas. They were a repugnant group, themselves in need of bathing. The fat guy was especially disgusting, a hideous tattoo covering the entire left side of his face. The word cerdo came to mind - pig.

The pants, said JoaquAn.

Matthew heard the zipper, then the hoots. The guerrillas atop the boulder were sharing a bottle of something. The fat one with the tattoo stood up and started dancing, which quickly degenerated into a vulgar pelvic thrust. The others applauded, egging him on. He jumped down from the boulder and went toward Nisho.

She was wearing only underpants, her arms covering her breasts. Cerdo grabbed her clothes, then wadded them into a ball and pitched them to JoaquAn. He held the bundle in open hands, as if offering Nisho her clothes. She came toward him, pleading as she reached for the bundle. He laughed in her face and quickly pitched it back to the fat guy. He made the same phony offer, and again Nisho fell for it. He tossed her clothes back to another guerrilla. She was soon running back and forth, still trying to cover herself, tears streaming down her face.

Stop it! shouted Matthew.

The sharpshooter responded with another warning, this one even closer. Matthew stopped in his tracks, still knee-deep in the eddy.

Nisho! Nishooooooo! JoaquAn shouted.

She was bouncing back and forth, one guerrilla to the next, as they played keep-away with her clothes. As she raced by JoaquAn, he reached out and grabbed her by the panties, ripping them off. She screamed and fell. The guerrillas shouted with excitement as JoaquAn waved the panties over his head. The guerrillas formed a circle around her, tossing her clothes from one to the next, over Nisho's head, behind her back, howling each time she reached up and exposed her nakedness. JoaquAn put his gun aside and grabbed her from behind, taking a breast in each hand. She kicked and swung wildly as he lifted her from the ground, then bit his arm.

He cried out and slapped her across the head.

Matthew seized the moment and dived for JoaquAn's gun. He got a hand on it, but only for a split second. Cerdo rapped him across the head with the butt of his rifle. Matthew fell to the ground hard, bleeding from the head.

Her screaming grew more shrill and desperate. The guerrillas were shouting, no longer laughing. It was more like a barbaric chant.

Matthew sensed that someone was standing over him, but his head was throbbing, his vision blurring. Gradually the noises faded. He raised his head one last time, just high enough to see three men drag a screaming Nisho off behind the rocks, and then his world turned black.

Chapter 43

MarAa and I had traveled by boat up the coast from Puerto Cabezas, then hiked another half hour into the thick of the rain forest. The Mosquito Coast was living up to its name. I was covered with insect repellent, but nothing short of dousing myself in gasoline and setting myself on fire could have deterred these monsters. I was sure they'd drawn at least a pint of my blood by the time we reached the first clearing. We stopped for water from our canteens atop a barren, muddy hill. Hundreds of short sticks were protruding up from the ground.

What's with all the sticks? I asked.

Mudslide. The last hurricane. Used to be a village here. The sticks are where we found the bodies.

I took a wider look and saw even more sticks. Hundreds more in every direction, up one slope and down another. It was the jungle version of Arlington National Cemetery, except that everybody here, children included, had been washed away at the same horrific moment in the same giant river of mud. MarAa fell silent, eyes closed, as if in prayer. I bowed my head and said a little one of my own.

That was our last real break of the afternoon. We walked nonstop for two more hours, sharing water along the way, until we finally reached an old Miskito Indian settlement at dusk. It was little more than a small clearing in the trees. There were no real roads, only footpaths that led from the hub to the forest in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel. In the center of the clearing was an old wooden building that appeared to be a combination church and schoolhouse. About a dozen tumbledown shacks surrounded it. A group of Indian children came out to greet us as we entered their village. I was suddenly surrounded by outstretched hands, some of them tugging at my backpack. They knew MarAa by name, which lessened my anxiety.

I used to teach here, she said over the incessant chatter of the children.

Teach what?

Bible school.

I suddenly understood what had drawn her to Lindsey, a lost soul if ever there was one.

MarAa said something in the native Miskito language, and the smiling children backed away, allowing us to pass. I followed her around to the back of the church, where she stopped at the door to a small cottage. She knocked twice, and the door opened. A woman with short blond hair was standing in the doorway, the first Caucasian I'd seen since leaving Managua. The short hair threw me. In the waning daylight I almost didn't recognize my own sister.

Nick? she said.

I came to see if you want to change your long-distance carrier.

She smiled, appreciating the humor, then came out and gave me a rather unexpected hug. I can't believe you're here.

I can't believe you're here, I said.

We didn't tell MarAa that we wanted to talk alone, but on her own initiative she headed off to chat with her former pupils. Lindsey led me inside, closed the door, and lit the oil lamp on the table. It was a one-room shack, and the lamp was the only source of light. The bed was a woven hammock. A pitcher and washbasin were resting on the nightstand beside it. The floor was a collection of straw mats on dirt. We sat at opposite sides of the table on the only two chairs in the room. She offered me a tin cup of water.

You've had your shots, right?

I got them before I went to Colombia.

You went to Colombia?

The way she'd asked, it was clear that she didn't know about Dad. She seemed genuinely shocked as I told her all about the kidnapping. It took several minutes. I finished with the part that I assumed would be of greatest interest to her.

The insurance company thinks you're behind Dad's kidnapping.

That's preposterous.

That's what I thought. For starters, how would you even know he had kidnap-and-ransom insurance?

She paused, then said, Actually, I think I did know that.

What do you mean?

Dad never came right out and told me he had it. But he wanted to buy a policy for me, and I guess I sort of assumed he had it for himself.

Now I'm really confused. The last time you and I had a phone conversation, you said that you hadn't spoken to Mom or Dad since Christmas.

The last time you and I talked was almost three months ago.

Are you saying things have changed between you and Dad?

Honestly, we were becoming close.

I put down my tin cup, leaned into the table, and looked her in the eye. Lindsey, knock off the games. MarAa told me about you and Guillermo. I know all about the story you were writing on the plight of these divers.