Running from the Devil

by Jamie Freveletti

  He fired the grenade launcher.

  The helicopter exploded, spewing metal shards everywhere. A fireball rose into the air, and pieces of burning helicopter landed in the clearing. The copter flung itself sideways as one of its propellers broke off. It flew to the side, all the while losing speed. After sixty seconds, it turned, runners up, and then dropped like a stone. It landed in the forest and exploded on impact. A second explosion released another fireball into the air, and the tops of the trees went up in flames.

  Sumner watched the treetops burn for a second before he bent to help Emma. She stood up, and her legs wobbled with fear. She turned on him.

  “They were saving us! Why did you shoot them down?” Emma could feel the cords in her neck as she raged.

  Sumner shook his head. “They weren’t saving us, they were killing them.” He waved at the clearing. Emma looked around, still unable to believe what had happened. The women were all dead, lying in their own blood. Mathilde was not among them.

  “That was a drug runners’ copter,” Sumner said. “The guerrillas must be nearby.”

  “How can you be sure that wasn’t the military sent to find the jet?” Emma still shook with her anger at the missed opportunity to get out of this jungle hellhole.

  “Caldridge, they shot at us.”

  “Because they thought we were part of the camp. You can’t be sure that they weren’t the good guys.”

  “I’m sure,” Sumner said, a grim note in his voice. “They left a calling card.” He waved at the thing thrown from the helicopter. At first Emma thought it was a bomb that hadn’t exploded. She moved toward it to get a closer look.

  It was a human head.

  Emma stared at the thing in horror. “Oh my God.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Sumner reached down to grab Emma’s arm. She jerked out of his grip and stalked to the spit. She shook with an all-encompassing anger. Anger at Sumner, anger at the killers in the helicopter, even anger at the women who lay dead all around them. She took the pig off the fire and placed it on a piece of wood.

  “Come help me cut this thing up,” she said. “This may be the last food we see for a while.”

  She ignored the dead women all around her as she opened a bag that sat next to the spit. She pulled out carving knives and tongs, as well as several dishes. Sumner made an impatient sound and strode over to her. He grabbed the bag, turned it over, and dumped its entire contents into the dirt. He picked the pig up and shoved it in, whole. He threw the knives in, stood up, slung the bag over his shoulder, and pointed to the jungle.

  “I liked you better when you had a fever,” Emma snapped at him.

  Sumner headed back into the forest.

  Emma followed, still simmering with anger and frustration. It didn’t take long for the second helicopter to arrive. This one sank below the tree line and shot along the stream. Sumner and Emma ran into the growth along the banks, crouched behind a bush, and watched as the helicopter flew by. Emma stared hard at its sides. It didn’t bear any markings. A man in jeans and a black polo shirt sat in an open door with a rifle in his hands. Another sat in the passenger side and scanned the area with binoculars. They shot past Emma and Sumner’s hiding spot and disappeared around a corner. Emma slid the backpack and tent off her shoulders and let them drop to the ground. She rubbed at her sore shoulders.

  “Just give me a minute. This thing is heavy,” she said.

  Sumner just stood next to her, waiting.

  Emma pulled the pack back up. “Let’s go.”

  Sumner took it away from her.

  “How’s your wound?” she asked. “The strap will rest right along it and might inflame it again. Frankly, I can’t afford to have you fall back into a fever.”

  “And yet that’s when you like me so well,” Sumner shot back.

  He slung the backpack over his shoulder; she hauled the bag with the pig onto her back, and they continued downstream.

  27

  THEIR PROGRESS WAS RIDICULOUSLY SLOW. IT WAS OVER EIGHTY degrees and the humidity made it feel as though they were walking through fog. The banks of the stream consisted mainly of mud, and it sucked at their shoes. Every so often Emma would see a snake slither past. One was black with orange bands in a geometric pattern. None of the wildlife seemed inclined to attack them, but she kept her distance nonetheless.

  Clouds of bugs hovered in the air. Emma and Sumner waved at them with their hands, but there were too many. They flew into Emma’s eyes and ears and clung to the edges of her lips. One crawled up her nose and she snorted like crazy to get it out.

  “God, that’s disgusting,” she said.

  Sumner looked at her and nodded as he smacked at the black buzzing veil of bugs.

  They pitched camp. This time they built a fire and warmed the pig. Sumner shaved pieces off the side and handed them to Emma. She pulled out the small bottle of red wine from the pack.

  Sumner burst into laughter.

  “You’re like Mary Poppins. Always pulling something good out of that bag.” A smile creased his face and real delight shone in his eyes. Emma was stunned by the reaction, but recovered enough to grin back at him.

  “Fresh meat deserves a fine wine.” She held the bottle out like a sommelier at the Ritz. “Sir. Bolla, Valpolicella, vintage yesterday. Our finest offering.” She twisted off the screw top and took a sip, rolled it around in her mouth, and swallowed. “Excellent.” She gave it to Sumner and he swallowed his own large gulp. They ripped into the pork.

  “God, this is great.” The pork fell apart in Emma’s mouth and tasted like heaven. Sumner nodded and carved some more for her.

  They ate in silence. Sumner retreated into himself and his private thoughts. It was as if the burst of laughter had never occurred. After eating, Emma shoved a small steel bowl she’d pilfered back at Mathilde’s checkpoint into her backpack and used it as a pillow. She stared at Sumner, thinking about his shot at the helicopter.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

  “My father.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Minnesota. Guns came with the territory.”

  “What do you do for the Southern Hemisphere Drug Defense?”

  “I monitor unidentified planes flying under radar in and out of Miami.”

  “Ah. So that explains your extensive knowledge of the habits of drug runners and your excellent Spanish.”

  Sumner shrugged and stayed silent.

  “How many languages do you speak?” she said.

  “Four.”

  Emma was impressed. “I speak two. Well, three, really. English, German, and Latin. As a scientist, Latin is the language I probably use the most, which is odd because it’s a dead language. Is German one of the four you speak?”

  Sumner nodded. She wanted to press him for more personal information but decided that further interrogation wasn’t necessary. Besides, his one-syllable answers made for slow going. They had plenty of time to get acquainted, and the mosquitoes were out and eating her alive.

  “I’m headed to the tent. I’ve had enough of bugs for one day,” she said.

  Sumner nodded again and continued to eat the pork. Emma scrambled into the tent, smashing two mosquitoes that had found their way in behind her. She rolled onto her side, but rather than sleep she found herself waiting for Sumner to join her. There was something reassuring about his quiet presence. She liked that he rarely spoke unless it was required, and that he hadn’t been swayed by Mathilde’s beauty into relaxing his caution. Emma had dealt with intense people before. Many of her ultramarathon friends had the same quiet intensity, and she herself could not be described as a social butterfly, far from it.

  She also liked that he seemed at ease with the isolation. In Emma’s experience, few people were so content with themselves as to spend long periods of time alone, and the ones who were tended to be damaged in some way. She had the feeling that this man might be one of the few who could handle both isolati
on and society with aplomb.

  Sumner pushed aside the netting door and crawled into the tent, taking care not to touch her. Emma pretended to sleep while he arranged himself against the far wall. He lay down on his side, facing her. The nights were so dark that Emma couldn’t see anything, least of all Sumner’s face, but she had the distinct impression that he was awake and staring in her direction. She stayed still, and after fifteen minutes more, she heard him sigh. She fell asleep.

  28

  EMMA CALDRIDGE LIVED IN A CONDOMINIUM COMPLEX IN THE South Pointe area of Miami Beach. The complex occupied an entire block on Second Avenue. Close enough to walk to the beach, but far enough to allow for some peace. Stromeyer stood in front of Emma’s door while she watched Miriam Steinberg, the chairman of Emma’s condo association, put a key into the lock. Mrs. Steinberg wore cotton sweatpants with a matching cotton top and spangled flip-flops, and carried a huge straw tote bag as a purse.

  “I don’t know what to think, what with you coming with a warrant and all,” Mrs. Steinberg said. Stromeyer sought to put her at ease.

  “It’s nothing to be alarmed about. I’m in charge of looking into the victims’ lives in order to get background on them. You needn’t worry.” Mrs. Steinberg shook her head.

  “The poor girl. Such a tragedy.” The door swung open. “There. Just close it behind you. It’ll lock. I’ll come by later and throw the dead bolt.”

  Stromeyer stepped into a small living room lined with windows. Sunlight streamed in through open curtains. The room was decorated in browns and greens with a mixture of modern furniture pieces and a few antiques thrown in to break up the minimalism. Tall palm plants in large planters occupied the corners, near sliding French doors that opened onto a small terrace. A flat-screen television sat on a modern wood credenza. Next to it was a Bose Wave stereo. To the right of the living room was a narrow hallway with two doors. To the left, in an L shape, was a small dining area, and farther left, behind the wall that held the television, was a small, square kitchen.

  The kitchen was spotless. Stromeyer walked to the dishwasher. The display read CLEAN. As if Emma had started it before she left.

  Stromeyer chided herself for calling Ms. Caldridge Emma, even in her mind. The more she learned about the woman, the more she wanted her to be a victim in this disaster, not a player, as Banner had called her, but Stromeyer needed to keep her objectivity. What she wanted and what was real might not match.

  A telephone mounted on the wall docked in an answering-machine base. The machine blinked the number three in a pulsing LED display. Stromeyer pushed the message button. The machine whirred, and a woman’s voice poured out of the speaker.

  “Emma, it’s Cindy, please call me. I heard about the crash and we’re all worried about you here.” Cindy was Caldridge’s secretary at Pure Chemistry. The second message was Cindy again, sounding even more worried. On the third, Stromeyer hit pay dirt. A man’s voice poured out of the machine.

  “Honey, I know you said not to call, but I’m worried. Please send me a message that you’re all right.”

  Stromeyer grabbed the receiver. A button allowed the owner to scroll through the caller identification list for the phone. The phone numbers of the last ten calls were there, neatly recorded, except the last. The last read PRIVATE CALLER.

  “Damn,” Stromeyer said. She heard a key in the lock. She placed the phone into the dock without making a sound and moved to the corner of the kitchen. She peered around the wall at the front door. It swung open, and a man stepped into the living room. He hesitated a moment before turning to close the front door with a quiet push. Tall, tan, with silver hair cropped close to his head, he looked to be about sixty-five. He wore tailored khakis and a yellow polo shirt. He moved toward the kitchen, giving Stromeyer a full view of his face. It was George Caldridge. The resemblance to his daughter was unmistakable. Stromeyer stepped out of the kitchen.

  “You must be George Caldridge,” she said.

  The man gave a violent start. He pulled a small gun out of his pocket and pointed it at her.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  The gun surprised the hell out of Stromeyer. It was as unexpected as his visit. It was also obvious that Mr. Caldridge didn’t know how to use a gun. Stromeyer put up a hand to calm the man.

  “I’m Major Carol Stromeyer. I work with a company in conjunction with the Department of Defense. I’m here investigating the hijacking of Flight 689. Please put the gun down.”

  The gun stayed pointed at her. George Caldridge gave her a grim look.

  “Haven’t you people done enough?” he said.

  Now Stromeyer was confused. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  Mr. Caldridge waved Stromeyer out of the kitchen. “Come out of there.”

  She did, moving slowly, keeping her hands in sight so he could see that she wasn’t armed.

  “You know what I mean. First you try to confiscate my daughter’s research, then you threaten her with treason should she not cooperate with your plan. She’s a scientist, not a traitor. She came upon the formula completely by accident, and you and your people knew it.”

  “Mr. Caldridge, I swear to you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I work for Darkview, a security consultant firm contracted by the DOD. No one has informed me about any of this. What formula?”

  Mr. Caldridge stared at Stromeyer hard for a moment. He sighed and lowered the gun.

  “I don’t know what formula. Emma wouldn’t tell me. All she said was that she’d discovered something by accident. She said someone claiming to be from the DOD got wind of her discovery and wanted her to license the formula to them. When she refused, they started harassing her. Threatening to charge her with treason. Tapping her phone.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  He shook his head. “No. She told me she had a plan that would end the harassment, though. She warned me to leave Florida for a while. She said she’d call when it was all clear. I knew that she’d intended to fly to Colombia. When I heard that the plane went down…” Mr. Caldridge’s voice cracked. Tears filled his eyes. He shook his head.

  Stromeyer put her hands down. “Mr. Caldridge, she’s still alive, as far as we know. When the plane first went down she sent a text message to her boss at Pure Chemistry. And since then our search-and-rescue team found her luggage with yet another note from her tucked inside.”

  Relief flowed over Mr. Caldridge’s face. “Oh, thank God. I’d heard about the toll-free number to call for information about the passengers, but I was afraid to turn on my cell. Emma insisted that I keep it off until she returned. She said they could use the signal to track it. She was afraid they’d use me to pressure her.”

  Stromeyer had to agree with Emma. If whoever was harassing her had engineered the hijacking, then they were not afraid to employ any method to achieve their aims. Now Emma’s text message to her boss made sense. She had been afraid to send something to her father for fear of its being tracked.

  Stromeyer waved at Mr. Caldridge. “You’d better come with me.”

  “Where?” Mr. Caldridge’s voice was loaded with mistrust.

  “Don’t worry, not to the DOD. I’m taking you to Darkview’s temporary offices. I need you to tell this story again to my partner.”

  Mr. Caldridge put the gun in his pocket. “I’m sorry about the gun. I wouldn’t have shot you.”

  Stromeyer nodded. “I knew that.”

  Mr. Caldridge looked surprised. “How?”

  Stromeyer opened the door for him. “The safety was on.”

  29

  ALVARADO CAME TO AND SAT UP IN A GROGGY HAZE. IT WAS black as pitch. His head throbbed something awful, and his vision was blurred. Walking anywhere was out of the question. He lay back down and fell asleep.

  The next morning he walked into a tense camp. The passengers huddled next to one another on one side, the guerrillas on the other. Both groups eyed Luis with dread. He was busy beating a male passe
nger with his bare fists. The passenger lay on the ground, his body curled into a tight ball and his arms over his head to protect himself from the blows. Luis grew tired of punching and graduated to kicking the passenger with his steel-toed boots. It sounded like he was kicking a side of beef.

  Alvarado sighed at this display of Luis’s usual inability to control himself. Luis looked up and spotted him. He stopped kicking.

  “Where the hell have you been? And where are Jorge and Gordo?”

  “They deserted,” Alvarado said.

  “What? That’s not possible.” Luis was shocked. His best men.

  “Leave off the passenger and let’s go in your tent. We need to talk.”

  Luis delivered one more blow to the groaning man and stormed into his tent. Alvarado followed at a slower pace. Once in the tent, he delivered the news as quickly as he could.

  “The diabetic man is dead, but the tall man escaped with the help of an English-speaking woman. I believe she was the one tracking us, not El Chupacabra. Jorge and Gordo were afraid to tell you this, so they attacked me and ran off.”

  Luis stood, unmoving. The only sign that showed he’d heard Alvarado was the twitching in his left cheekbone.

  “I will track that man down myself and kill him. Only after he is dead will my luck change.”

  Alvarado wanted to pull his hair out at Luis’s ridiculous statement. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was the fact that Luis was partially correct. His luck on this venture had been bad, and it was getting worse by the day. Nevertheless, Alvarado reached for a way to placate Luis. In point of fact, things were not at a total loss, and they were so deep in the shit now, going deeper was the only alternative.

  “He is one gringo and they were three men who cannot call themselves soldiers. Surely things are not that bad, Luis. We have the hostages still, and we have lost only two to the mines instead of the ten or fifteen that we expected.”

  Luis looked at Alvarado, and for the first time Alvarado saw what might have been fear in his eyes.