by M. G. Harris
For safety, our bugeiro pulls back as we near the edge. There’s no hiding his astonishment when the blue buggy driver does the opposite, sticking dangerously close to the red buggy as it tumbles down the slope.
Benicio gasps. “That guy is nuts! Someone’s going to get hurt.”
Finally, the driver of the red buggy seems to have got it into his head that he has a crazy guy on his tail. He uses the drop to speed up, pulling away at the bottom of the hill. The red buggy is already a hundred metres ahead, almost at the shoreline as we go into the final drop. The blue buggy speeds up too.
Benicio speaks again, this time ominously. “I don’t think that buggy is trying to overtake Ixchel’s.” I turn to him. He pauses. I definitely don’t want to hear Benicio complete this thought. “I think they’re chasing them.”
The driver of the red buggy seems to have reached the same conclusion. He’s really turned the speed on now, trying to get away from the nutjob behind him. Ixchel and Tyler are yellow and green blurs in the distance as their buggy zips across the flat wet sands. The blue buggy speeds up too, its four burly passengers sitting impassively in their seats.
“Josh, Benicio, time to sit properly. Hold tight!” Montoyo yells. Then he tells our bugeiro to speed up.
As I drop from the back on to the rear car seat, a sense of foreboding flashes across my mind. Something bad is happening – in probably the last place I expected. In the very next second our buggy takes its turn at the sickening, almost-vertical drop. We zip down the sand, sometimes sliding, sometimes bumping. Tangy sea air and sand sting our faces. We practically fly down the dune. I hardly breathe.
Then we’re on to the beach, rushing to catch the blue car in front. The low tide whips at the wheels of our vehicle; a spray of salty water lashes our skin. Blue buggy chases red buggy. Silver chases blue. Could it all be a stupid game? If this was happening to anyone but me, I’d be tempted to say it was just some local bugeiros, rivals possibly, playing a joke.
But this is me. In my life, incidents like this have a habit of turning nasty.
A few minutes into the situation, I’m more than nervous.
I’m downright scared.
In the red buggy, Ixchel, Mum and Tyler are still around a hundred metres ahead when their buggy actually jumps across a stream of water slicing into the sand. They make a hard left, disappear into a tangle of cashew trees behind the low dunes.
A second or so later, the blue buggy follows suit. Another second after that, so do we.
The path cut through the cashew trees is just wide enough for one buggy. All three bugeiros are driving like crazies – I’m not surprised to spot tourists spreadeagled against the side of the path, desperately trying to stay out of our way.
The forest path twists and turns – I can only just spot the blue buggy ahead. The obstacles have slowed it down. Now I can see the passengers more clearly. It’s the three muscular blokes with their fair-haired guy. They don’t even glance behind them. They’re obsessed with chasing the buggy in front.
Why?
In a few minutes, we clear the cashew forest. We crash through broken fencing and on to the red, sandy dirt track of a village. The makeshift road is lined with single-storey shacks; simple houses from where locals stare at us as we zoom by.
I’m starting to wonder where this will end. Are we just going to hurtle madly through all the fishing villages until we get to Natal? What then?
The road is riddled with deep puddles of milky, reddish-brown rainwater. The bugeiros swerve to avoid the deepest puddles, but it’s not always possible. The blue and red buggies ahead keep being lost from view, hidden behind a cloud of brick-coloured spray.
As the town gets more built-up, the road narrows. We hit a tarmac-covered section. Even though we’re in the thick of the village now, the drivers hardly slow down at all. Why doesn’t the red buggy driver just stop, call off the chase? I crane my neck to get a better look at the passengers in the blue buggy. But every time I move, my head or knees get a wallop from some part of the buggy.
“Why don’t they just stop?” I yell at Montoyo.
He replies curtly, not bothering to turn around, “Because they have a gun. In the front seat. He’s pointing a gun at them.”
“What?!”
Montoyo doesn’t answer. I steal a glance at Benicio.
“What the heck. . .?”
Benicio frowns. “It looks bad, Josh.”
Ignoring the fact that my head crashes against the overhead bar, I raise myself up to a place where I can see over the three guys in the back of the blue buggy.
Montoyo’s right. Calm as you like, the guy in the front has a large pistol trained on the red buggy.
Yet he’s not firing. Why?
Villagers are literally leaping out of our way now. Some of them hurl rubbish at us, furious at the ruckus. But nothing seems to stop us.
The road slopes along a steep hill. Buildings here are a mixture of ramshackle concrete huts that might be half-built or half-destroyed – it’s hard to tell which. Wheels slip and slide as the driver forces the buggy to climb way too fast. At the top of the hill, the red buggy halts.
It’s not just the hill. There’s something in the way – two more buggies packed with passengers. They’ve come up against something. I peer up the hill. There seems to be a white van across the road, blocking it.
The blue buggy stops a few metres behind the red one carrying Mum, Ixchel and Tyler. The guy in front, the fairhaired white guy, steps out. The gun is raised now, held sideways at eye level.
He shouts towards the red buggy in heavily accented English, “Get out, all of you!”
Montoyo grabs our driver’s arm. “Stop!”
The three dark guys in the back of the blue buggy are climbing out. Two of them turn towards us.
Urgently Montoyo hisses, “Reverse!”
Our bugeiro slams the buggy into reverse. We screech down the hill backwards.
The two guys from the blue buggy are reaching into their shirts. One pulls out a gun. Our bugeiro forces a handbrake turn. We spiral for a second, then jolt forward. The buggy leaps across someone’s front yard, bursting through a line of hanging laundry. We head for the workshop at the side. We keep going, breaking down the makeshift straw wall at the rear and heading into a construction site. Labourers in hard hats leap out of our way, yelling out in fury. The buggy skids unsteadily over patches of wet concrete, clambers over a pile of scree that blocks the only exit.
That takes us into another alleyway, for the moment deserted. The buggy driver mutters again. But like us, he can see there’s no choice but to keep moving.
Those guys have guns.
“That was a roadblock!” Benicio shouts, breathless as we navigate the narrow, dusty lane. “Those guys were organized!”
I’m stunned. “You saying it was a trap?”
Before anyone can answer, there’s an engine roar from behind us. It’s the blue buggy, revving loudly, screaming down the tight street to catch up with us.
Our driver turns into an even narrower alley. The sides of the vehicle scrape against crumbling concrete walls. Instinctively, I suck in my breath. We squeeze through the narrow gap and on to a dusty clearing – overlooking the edge of a ravine. The bugeiro curses loudly. He spins the buggy round and round, throwing up clouds of sandy red powder.
He’s looking for options. There’s only one.
The blue buggy has followed us again. This time it’s carrying only one passenger – and he’s armed. It blocks the narrow lane as, carefully, its driver forces through. In two seconds they’ll be on the patio with us.
We’re pointing straight at the edge of the flat clearing. The ravine is beyond, about four metres wide. On the other bank, a line of banana trees. Behind them, more scrub-covered sand dunes.
Our driver drops into first gear and slams the pedal; the buggy leaps forward until we reach the edge of the ravine. We’re airborne. It only lasts a fraction of a second. I can hardly believe we
’re going to make it. We drop dangerously low; almost slam into a wall of banana palms. But amazingly, the driver manages to land between two of them. We’re through, on to the sand dunes. I turn around just in time to see the blue buggy stalled at the edge of the patio.
They’ve stopped.
Benicio gasps with relief. “I guess we weren’t worth the extra risk. . .”
Montoyo replies grimly, “Or they need to leave someone to pay the ransom.”
Ransom?
“They’ve been kidnapped, Josh,” he says gravely. “Benicio is right. This was a trap.”
For several long minutes I struggle to grasp what Montoyo has just said.
Kidnapped?
Ominous tales of South American kidnapping gangs spring to mind. I didn’t know this kind of thing happened in Brazil – at least not in a nice place like Natal. Mexico, Colombia, Peru, sure; everyone’s heard of kidnapping in those countries. It’s a big business in Mexico City these days, so I’ve heard my parents say. A bloody one at that.
People get kidnapped, yanked right out of their cars on the street. Young people, old people; it doesn’t matter. What matters is that they matter to someone – someone who will pay.
Simple economics. Give us cash or your son, daughter, cousin gets it.
On the way, victims can lose a finger or two, maybe an ear. Sliced off by ruthless kidnappers, delivered to the terrified relatives. When the kidnappers get impatient, people die.
My mind reels. Mum. Tyler. Ixchel.
The things they’re going to go through. I’m sick with fear. Benicio and Montoyo are silent with their own thoughts. A sense of deep shock settles over us. The bugeiro drives along, no more muttering or cursing, chewing nervously on his shirtsleeve.
I summon up the courage to speak, my voice cracking. “What happens now?”
“Let’s get back to the hotel first, Josh,” Montoyo says. “Try to relax if you can.” He twists backwards in the seat, faces me. “And breathe. The next few days are going to be difficult. You need to be strong.”
He’s right, I realize. I’m so tense that it’s hard to breathe.
This can’t be happening. Not now, not after everything we’ve been through.
The buggy driver takes us on to the main highway. Soon we’re crossing a huge bridge into Natal. I stare up at the parallel lines of the bridge’s suspension, slicing the sky into deep-blue segments.
I’d forgotten about the real world, the outside world. So wrapped up in my own problems: Ek Naab and its massive destiny, the mystery of Arcadio, the Bracelet of Itzamna and a fate I believed I could alter. . .
I forgot about the everyday brutality of the real world. Why should I be immune to ordinary crime? Obviously, I’m not. But it doesn’t seem fair.
This is just too much.
The second we arrive at the hotel, Benicio leaps out of the buggy. Without a word or a glance, he storms into the room he’s sharing with Montoyo. I watch him climb the stairs two at a time.
Benicio is angry with me.
I don’t understand why, but there’s no mistaking the rage pouring off him. It must have brewed up over the buggy ride. I look at Montoyo, puzzled.
“Why’s he angry with me?”
“Don’t worry about Benicio now,” Montoyo advises. He sits me down in the lobby. It’s deserted apart from one maid laying the dining table for lunch.
The receptionist strolls over and murmurs quietly to Montoyo, in Portuguese. When she’s gone, Montoyo stares at me, his eyes deadly serious, his mouth set.
“The kidnappers have been in touch.”
Hesitantly, I nod.
His voice becomes soft, deliberately calm. “Let me explain what has happened. It looks as though your mother and friends have been abducted by a new gang that’s operating in the area. They also took seven other tourists, the ones in the two buggies in front of your mother’s. They blocked the road with that white van, rounded them up and took everyone into their van at gunpoint. Minutes later, they were gone.”
“A new gang?”
“Kidnapping is rather unusual in this part of Brazil. But the gang members seem to be from a place where kidnapping is big business – Rio de Janeiro. Definitely professionals. “
“I get it. . .” I mutter.
But I don’t.
Montoyo says carefully, “This is all about money. The kidnappers judge how much they can ask for each hostage. They will come back to us with what’s known as ‘proof of life’ – photo evidence that the hostages are alive and well. Then will follow a named sum of money. That’s when we start to negotiate. Somewhere in the middle ground, we find a figure we can all agree on.”
“So Mum, Tyler, Ixchel – they won’t be hurt?” I’m starting to glimpse some hope.
Montoyo shakes his head. “Try not to worry. We have access to plenty of cash. Obviously we’ll negotiate, just so that it looks like we’re being pushed to our limit. The fact that we’re staying in such a simple hotel should make the kidnappers believe we aren’t rich.”
I can’t keep the admiration out of my voice. “You can fix this?”
With a little smile, Montoyo says, “Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with many, many difficult people in my life. I will handle this. Stay calm, stay in your room as much as possible. Don’t be alone, even in the pool. In a few days hopefully this will be over. Like a bad dream.“
“What about the police?”
“If we go to the police, we force them to act for us.”
“So?”
A shadow seems to cross Montoyo’s face. “It makes things harder to resolve quietly. Pride comes into it. The police want to win, catch the criminals. The safety of the hostages may not be their main objective. For now we deal directly with the gang.”
With that he stands up, pulling me to my feet. I’m sent upstairs to my room while Montoyo waits for the phone call.
Somehow I’m not surprised that Montoyo has completely taken charge. He didn’t ask me once about how I felt or what I thought we should do. Montoyo seems pretty confident about the situation. Me – I’m out of ideas.
I close the door behind me, feeling shivery and numb. I lie on the bed staring up at the motionless ceiling fan. Minutes tick by, time stretching in the growing afternoon heat. After a while I break out into a sweat. It trickles down my head and neck, into the pillowcase. I don’t budge an inch. I can’t stop remembering.
The things I said to Mum. The way I acted around Ixchel. It seems hard to believe that was me, even a couple of hours later.
What I’d really wanted this morning was simply to sit next to Ixchel, maybe put my arm around her. To be all relaxed and smiling, sharing a joke. Why was that so hard? In my imagination it was easy – no problem. In my imagination I was just like Benicio with Ixchel. Relaxed, cool, confident – the kind of guy every girl likes.
But searching my memories, I don’t think I’ve ever let her see that side of me. Not once. I know I’m not usually a jerk around girls. Why can’t I just be normal with Ixchel?
Mum’s another story. She’s my mum – she’ll forgive me. When we see each other again, I bet it will be like it never happened.
The events of the afternoon begin to take shape in my memory, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The face of the fair-haired guy in the blue buggy. I recognized him from somewhere, but where? It’ll come to me eventually, I know. I replay the entire morning in my head. Slowly. As though in a dream, I watch myself walk away from my mother at the sand dunes, and go to the silver buggy, watch Ixchel take her belongings and join Mum in the red buggy, watch Tyler offer to ride with me but return to the red buggy.
No wonder Benicio’s angry.
If not for my outburst against my mother, I’d have been the third passenger in the red buggy. Ixchel would have been with Benicio.
Ixchel would have been safe.
I want to believe Montoyo that it’s all going to be OK. But a deep current of fear runs through me. How all this happened . . . how it’s all going
to turn out . . . it’s like some complex mathematical equation.
I can’t balance it.
It all looks so simple on the surface – a simple case of bad luck: wrong place, wrong time. With such a simple solution – cash.
I’d love to believe it. Can it really be true?
When I’m finally starting to relax, nicely cooled by the dampness of my pillow – it comes to me. Things that weren’t in order. In a place where there should have been nothing odd, things that stuck in my mind.
The fair-haired guy in the blue buggy was at the capoeira contest.
