“No one is to leave this place,” Mendoza told us. He gestured toward the guards at the doors. “These men have orders to shoot anyone who tries to get away. Or tries to use the Internet. Or the phone.”
He paused as if he would say something else. But then he just gave Palmer one last angry glance.
This time, Palmer didn’t even turn from the soccer game.
And with that, Mendoza made a sharp pivot on his heel and marched out of the cantina.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nicki fell apart. The moment Mendoza was out the door, the second the tension in the cantina broke, she let out a little hiccup sound, raised her hands beside her head, rigid and shivering as if she were suffering a massive electric shock. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her mouth opened and closed a moment without making a sound. And then she did make a sound: strained, tearful words coming out of her in little coughing bursts.
“What . . . is . . . happening? What . . . they . . . killed . . . they killed . . . What . . . ? What . . . is happening?”
I knew how she felt. It was as if, with Mendoza gone, we finally had a chance to feel just how shocked and scared we were. I know I felt my own heart suddenly speed up, as if it were going to break out of my chest and run for the hills in pure terror.
“No! I mean . . . no! I . . . I . . . I . . . ,” Nicki said. “No . . .” Meredith got out of her chair. Went to her. Put her hands on her shoulders.
“Ssh. Quiet, Nicki,” she said—calmly like that, as if she hadn’t just been roughed up by a murderer. “Quiet. It’s going to be all right.”
“All right??? They killed . . . that man! They killed . . . ! All right???”
“Well, what did you all think?” asked Jim. “This has been building for years. How long did you think these people were going to tolerate—”
“Not now, Jim,” Meredith said quickly, and Jim’s mouth closed into a tight line as if he could only hold back by force what he wanted to say. Meredith leaned down and set her cheek against Nicki’s as Nicki hiccuped out another sob. “It’s all right. It’s going to be fine.”
“No. I . . . I . . . What is happening?” said Nicki again. She was weeping steadily now. “What is happening?”
I looked from them to Pastor Ron. “What is happening?” I asked him. “What are we going to do?”
Pastor Ron stared at me, and I felt my racing heart drop in my chest. Pastor Ron—he was our leader. He was the only real adult we had with us. He was the one who was going to have to take charge. But the way he looked just then—his eyes big as dinner plates behind his glasses, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words—it was . . . well . . . not inspiring, to say the least.
But now another voice came from across the room.
“You oughta shut her up, for one thing.”
Palmer. He had turned around, was leaning back against the bar, the beer bottle still in his hand. He gestured with the bottle at Nicki—Nicki, who went on sobbing and babbling out unfinished sentences and disconnected words.
“If you want to know what to do,” said Palmer, “that’d be a good place to start.”
I saw Pastor Ron blink—almost as if he were coming out of a trance. He looked at Nicki.
“Are we going to die now?” Nicki sobbed to no one in particular. “Are they . . . going to kill everybody? Are they going to shoot us?”
“Ssh,” said Meredith.
“I mean it,” said Palmer. “Shut her up and fast.”
Pastor Ron licked his lips. “There’s . . . there’s no need to talk to her like that,” he said. “She’s upset.”
“I don’t care if she’s the queen of England,” Palmer answered him. “You oughta quiet her down before these clowns do it for you.”
He gestured with his beer again. I followed the movement to look at the guards—the one at the front door and the one at the rear. They were watching us. Staring at us. Staring at Nicki. The looks on their faces sent that cold wind of dread through me again. They didn’t look happy. Not at all. They looked annoyed. They looked angry. As if they wanted Nicki to stop crying. Fast. As in: Right now. And permanently. The one at the rear door looked like he was about to lose his temper for sure. And everyone else in the bar—the local people, I mean—were sort of cowering together, as if they were expecting an explosion at any moment.
I saw Meredith look at the guards too, same as me. She gave a single nod. “Palmer’s right,” she said.
She was still holding Nicki by the shoulders, but she lifted her hands now to her face, to her cheeks. Gently but firmly, she turned Nicki’s face toward her.
“Look at me, Nicki,” she said very calmly. “Nicki, look at me.”
“What?” asked Nicki. “What’s happening? What’s . . . Are they going to kill us now?”
Holding Nicki’s face in her hands, Meredith gave her a soft shake. “Quiet. Look at me. I want you to be quiet now. I want you to stop crying and be quiet.”
“But . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t . . .”
“Yes, you can,” said Meredith. “Look at me.” Now, finally, Nicki did look—her crazed, terrified eyes met Meredith’s clear, steady gaze. Nicki sobbed again and trembled and then seemed somehow to grow more still. Her next sob was quieter. “That’s right,” said Meredith with an encouraging nod. Nicki took a breath. Then another breath. “That’s right,” said Meredith again. She wrapped her arms around Nicki and hugged her and Nicki held on to her—grabbed her as if for dear life—and was finally quiet, trembling in Meredith’s arms.
I looked up to check on the guards again. I saw one of them—the one at the front door—draw a deep breath as if he were relieved the annoying noise had stopped. The other one—the angry one at the back exit—a sort of bloated, hamster-faced, mean-looking character—went on casting his baleful glance Nicki’s way. But after another second or two, he seemed to lose interest.
Palmer turned from one guard to the other, lifting his beer as if in a toast. “Que típico de una mujer, eh?” he said. Just like a woman.
The guards liked that. It made them smile and nod. Finally, they looked away from us.
And I was relieved. I was. But I was angry too. Suddenly, in fact, I was really angry. I guess it was a late reaction to everything that had just happened. Suddenly, I was angry at everybody and everything. Angry at Mendoza for what he’d done to Carlos and to Meredith. Angry at the gunmen for imprisoning us here. Angry at Pastor Ron for not knowing what to do. And angry at Palmer—Palmer with his arrogant smirk and his insulting talk.
“Maybe . . .” Startled out of my own thoughts, I turned at the sound of Pastor Ron’s voice. He was still blinking behind his glasses as if trying to wake himself up. “Maybe if we called . . . someone . . . The US embassy in Santa Maria . . .”
My eyes lifted to the phone at the back of the bar. I’d seen it there before, sitting on the bottom shelf under the bottles of wine and whiskey. It was the oldest phone I’d ever seen. An ancient squat thing that looked like a phone in some black-and-white movie. It actually had one of those curlicue wires on the handset.
“I wouldn’t try reaching for that, if I were you,” said Palmer Dunn. “Mendoza gave orders to kill anyone who tried. Anyway, the Volcanoes have probably cut the connection by now.”
Pastor Ron nodded dully. “If only our cells worked . . . ,” he murmured.
“If only,” I heard Palmer mutter into his beer.
Somehow, that did it for me. His sneering tone of voice. His disdain for everyone. Somehow, that was the thing that made my anger boil over.
I found myself standing up out of my chair. I found myself taking a step toward Palmer.
“Well, what’s your bright idea?” I shouted at him. “If you know so much. If you’re so tough. If you’re so tough, why didn’t you do anything? Huh? You just stood there while he . . . while he . . . You just watched TV! So, I mean, what makes you so great?” I was so angry I didn’t know what I was saying. I gestured wildly at Meredith. �
��You didn’t even help her! He pushed her around like that, like . . . like . . . He hurt her. And you just stood there! You didn’t do anything!”
I know. I sounded like an idiot. But I couldn’t help myself. The words just came bubbling out of me.
And Palmer—he barely glanced my way. He took one last swig of his beer before clonking the empty bottle down on the bar.
“Well, you did something, kid, didn’t you?” he said. “And how did it help?”
I started to talk again, to shout at him some more, but nothing came out. He was right. What had I done while Mendoza dragged Meredith around the room like a rag doll? I just stood there. Watching. Helpless.
“You don’t get any points for good intentions,” Palmer said softly.
“All right.” A chair scraped. Pastor Ron stood. He seemed finally to have overcome his shock, to have regained his senses. He stood next to me. “It doesn’t do any good for us to fight among ourselves.” He faced Palmer. “What is happening here, Palmer?” he asked—and I was relieved to hear him sounding more like his usual calm and thoughtful self. “Do you know? What exactly is going on?”
It was the first thing any of us had said—or that anyone had said—that Palmer seemed to take seriously. He actually seemed to give the question some consideration before he answered.
“It’s an old-fashioned revolution, Padre. Most of the countries around here have gotten over this sort of thing, but in Costa Verdes, it’s been building up for years. Mendoza and his guys—the Volcanoes—that’s their nickname—they’re reds— or progressives, or whatever you want to call them. They figure the people who own most of the land and plantations in the country ought to share them with the other people, the peasants.”
“They should!” The words broke out of Jim Nolan. “Ninety percent of the country’s wealth belongs to a handful of people. It’s ridiculous!”
Palmer only shrugged in answer. “Whatever. My guess is the Volcanoes are planning to slaughter themselves a bunch of plantation owners. That’s the usual progressive idea. Plus, they’ll bump off all the poor slobs like Carlos who haven’t supported them in the past. Then they figure everything will be peaceful and fair happily ever after.”
“Wait a minute!” Jim protested. “You can’t just reduce this to—”
But Pastor Ron waved at him to be quiet, and he was. The pastor continued to question Palmer. “Do you think it’s just happening here in Santiago?” asked Pastor Ron.
“I doubt it,” said Palmer. “Mendoza’s just a local thug. The main fighting must be in the capital, in Santa Maria. That’s where most of the government’s army is. The rebels are going to have to defeat the army if they really want to take control of the country.”
“That’s why he let me go, isn’t it?” asked Meredith suddenly. She still had her arms around Nicki, but she turned in her chair to look at Palmer. “That’s why Mendoza let me go. You reminded him that the army might win, the revolution might fail . . .”
Palmer nodded. “The last time they tried this stuff, the United States put a hand in to help the government hold on. When it was over, when the revolutionaries failed, the people who killed or mistreated American citizens found themselves on the end of some rough justice.”
“So you scared him,” said Meredith, thinking it through. “You scared Mendoza into leaving me alone.”
Palmer shrugged.
“Thank you, Palmer,” Meredith said.
“I just told him the truth, that’s all,” Palmer said.
“Thank you,” Meredith said again.
Palmer shifted where he stood. He looks uncomfortable, I thought. He didn’t answer Meredith. He spoke to Pastor Ron instead: “Anyway, none of that’s going to do us much good, if the rebels take the capital. The Volcanoes are plenty angry this time. And they have long memories.”
“You mean, if the Volcanoes win . . . ,” Pastor Ron began to say.
“If the Volcanoes win, you can bet Mendoza will be back in here in a city minute. And this time, he won’t be such a nice guy about it.”
That got Nicki started again. She pulled away from Meredith. “You mean . . . You mean . . . he’ll kill us! He’ll shoot us!”
“Ssh, Nicki.” Meredith put her arms back around her. “It’ll be all right.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Palmer. His lip curled and the sardonic humor came back into his eyes.
“What do you think, Palmer?” asked Pastor Ron. “I mean, what do you think we should do?”
Palmer looked over at the guard by the front door, then over at the other guard at the rear. They grinned back at him unpleasantly. “Well, Padre,” Palmer said, “I’m looking at two men with AK-47s. Unless you’re planning to roll up a ‘Coexist’ bumper sticker and beat them to death with it, I’d say we’re going to pretty much do whatever they tell us to do.”
“It’s our fault! It’s just what we deserve!” Jim Nolan— who else? On his feet. Leaning in toward Palmer. His lean cheeks pink. His finger pointing. His voice bitter. “General Benitez tried to bring reform to this country. Thirty years ago. He tried to redistribute the land and we, the US, the CIA, they came down here and overthrew him. And now we’re paying for it. It’s all our fault.”
When he spluttered to a stop, Palmer looked at him— looked at him, I thought, with a look that said, Who is this idiot? He seemed about to say that out loud, in fact—or something like it. But the next moment, everyone in the cantina— Americans and locals alike—stiffened as a new sound reached us from outside.
Gunfire. Not far off either. Machine-gun shots rattling in the hills around us.
“I’m guessing that’s some land reform going on right now,” said Palmer. “Might be a good idea to change the channel on the television set, see if we can get some news, find out what’s happening in the capital. Because if the capital falls . . .”
Everyone gasped and tensed as another round of gunfire exploded outside—louder, closer this time.
Palmer didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. We all knew what he was going to say:
If the capital fell, if the revolutionaries won, Mendoza would come back in here and kill us all.
CHAPTER FIVE
What happened next was like a dream. If by a dream, you mean a nightmare. If by a nightmare, you mean the weirdest and scariest thing that ever happened.
Palmer turned to the old lady behind the bar. He spoke to her in a quick burst of Spanish. The lady—a tiny, stooped creature with a face like a raisin—picked up a remote control from below the bar and pointed it at the TV. The soccer game went off and the news came on. You could tell it was the news because a serious-looking man and woman were seated behind a desk looking directly into the camera. There was a map of the country behind them.
The man spoke in rapid Spanish—I couldn’t understand a word of it. After a couple of minutes, the picture changed and some film came on. The film showed angry people fighting in the city streets. I assumed they were the streets of Santa Maria.
What made it all so weird—so dreamlike—so frightening— was that we could hear the gunshots on the television and at the same time, we could hear the gunshots in the hills around us. And we knew that what happened on the TV would decide what happened here. It was like watching a zombie movie and suddenly hearing a slow, thudding knock on your front door . . . The life shown on the television and real life were becoming one dangerous thing.
I stared up at the TV screen. On one end of the street, men—most of them dressed like Mendoza in fatigues with red bandannas tied around their necks or foreheads—were firing machine guns or hurling hand grenades and flaming bottles. On the other side of the street, a ragged line of soldiers cowered behind riot shields or sometimes fired back with machine guns of their own. Sometimes mobs of other people, ordinary citizens, I guess, surged forward. They seemed to be supporting the rebels. They overturned cars and threw rocks and lit fires. Everywhere, buildings were in flames.
I felt my heart poundi
ng hard in my chest. It looked like the rebels had the people on their side. It looked like the soldiers were being overwhelmed. And I knew that if the rebels won, Mendoza would come back here. And I would be killed. Me and Pastor Ron and Meredith and Nicki and Jim—all of us. All of us would be shot dead as brutally and suddenly as Carlos the waiter. I stared at the TV and I knew this was true—and yet somehow I couldn’t really get myself to believe it.
The newsman went on talking rapidly over the pictures.
“What are they . . . ?” I had to swallow—hard—before I could get the words out. “What are they saying?”
“They’re saying the fighting is intense in the capital but that the army has things under control and is moving steadily toward victory . . . ,” Pastor Ron translated.
“The TV stations are run by the government,” Palmer said. “They say the army’s winning, but it sure doesn’t look like that to me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I tried to swallow again, but I couldn’t. My throat was too dry. “What do you mean?”
“Well, look at the video,” said Palmer. “The army’s in complete disarray. They’re right outside the government compound and they’re not even up to full muster. It looks to me like the army is deserting and the rebels have got the people behind them.”
Nicki let out a wail of misery. “Does that mean we’re going to die?”
Meredith patted her shoulder, but no one answered. A fresh round of gunfire started up outside. It wasn’t in the hills this time. It was closer.
I looked nervously toward the door. “It sounds like they’re fighting in the village here,” I said.
Palmer snorted. “That’s not fighting, pal. The fighting here is over. Those are executions. They’re killing anyone who didn’t support them.”
I went on staring at the door. Executions. Something sharp and rancid roiled in my stomach. I thought of the celebration in the plaza last night. The children singing. The women dancing. The men setting off fireworks. The priest thanking God that we had come to their village and helped them rebuild their school.
If We Survive Page 4
