by James Gray
“We’ll come back and do a proper visit,” I said, trying to stay positive. My mind was racing at the possibility of finally being able to film the sacred city. It had been a long journey from Belley’s Tavern in Québec City to the Ciudad Blanca, but there we were, standing in the guts of that very place.
On the way back to Uncle Tio’s camp, we had to skid down the steep, muddy trail, which had become worse by the hour. Every so often, a tree branch would crash down nearby. Everything seemed to be moving, and the soil was saturated underfoot. The water was collecting in pools, sometimes over our knees. It took about an hour, but when we finally arrived, we were caked in thick red mud and completely waterlogged.
The only way to get clean was to strip down and shower in the deluge. After that, we ate, rested and planned the next morning’s return trip to Ciudad Blanca. I sat under the shelter’s overhang and watched the once-lazy Rio Patuca become wild and angry, sending dark brown water and debris toward the Caribbean Sea. Chili-Chili and María sat beside me.
“Hey, Chili, how did your uncle die?” I asked.
He kept looking straight out over the swirling river. Then he turned to me. “Well, actually, he just vanished, disappeared. We’d come all the way from Bara Patuca to visit him, but he wasn’t here. Strangely enough, his pipante was on the sandbank as usual, and this place was as if he had just stepped out the door. He left without a trace.”
“Maybe he drowned?” asked Eddy.
Chili shook his head. Cowboy George was lying in his hammock just inside the door, listening. “Maybe he saw something that he shouldn’t have,” the Innu suggested.
“Possible. That seems more likely than a simple accident. My uncle was a fine person, a brave man. He was living in an isolated place close to an immense archaeological treasure, and he wanted it to remain untouched.”
A crash came from the river’s edge. The colossal tree to which the Casa Tio sign was nailed had just tumbled into the water.
“Simonac!” exclaimed Eddy. “It’s dangerous around here.”
Roots and earth had ripped completely out of the ground. The force of the current had already carried the mastodon away.
“Mira, Tio’s tree is gone; it’s the end of an era. That tree had always marked Tio’s place. It was a force of nature, like the man himself. Now both are gone!” Chili-Chili shivered.
“But his casa will survive, since the biggest trees around the house were cut,” I said.
“Si, stolen by loggers. Around here, they’ll take anything they can get their hands on.”
“Sure,” added Peter-Pedro, “there are guys who cut mahogany trees anywhere they feel like it. Then they float them down the river to a portable sawmill near the village. This is supposed to be a protected area, but no one cares.”
María added quietly, “Our land is on borrowed time. People from the exterior come here, catch a kind of sickness, and that sickness is greed. When they see our forests, they take the trees, then they find minerals and they take them too. What do they leave? Mostly garbage, disease and that’s about it. They know nothing about the people who live here. It’s like we don’t exist.”
“Si, amiga,” agreed Peter-Pedro. “This is our land. The Miskito people, the Pech, the Garifuna, and all the other groups living here are simple people. Look around; we possess almost nothing and never will. All we ask for is enough food to eat, a small casa, a family, and the love and comfort of each other.”
Chili-Chili thoughtfully gazed out over the raging river. “But they come and rob us anyway. It’s hard to comprehend the ways of the gods. Hopefully, we will gain back our land someday, but if that happens, it will be long after I’m gone.”
We went back inside to dry off in front of the cooking fire and tried to talk about something more positive.
About two hundred and fifty miles to the north, the hurricane had now been given a name by NOAA. Hurricane Mitch had built to a Category Five storm, with sustained winds upwards of 178 mph (285 km/h), making it one of the most powerful Atlantic hurricanes ever recorded. It had been travelling northwest toward the Yucatán, just as the National Hurricane Center in Miami had predicted. But mysteriously, the massive hurricane suddenly turned south, toward the Bay Islands, and after that it continued its destructive path toward the Mosquito Coast. This massive system seemed possessed, like a crazed animal chasing prey.
BARKER
Since Esmeralda had anchored in the river, things had gradually gotten worse. Shirley, who had been hired as a femme à tout faire before the boat had left Roatán, could only lie on her bunk in her cabin and sob. She hated the wind; it was driving her crazy. Ever since the storm had kicked in, she wished that she’d never gotten mixed up with the Dog and his gang of losers. From her cabin, she heard the commotion when the big black lancha arrived. She wondered who the woman doing all the yelling was. Whoever it was, she sounded furious, not frightened.
From the swearing and grunting, Shirley could tell that the crew on deck was struggling in the high winds and heavy rain to unload the wooden crates from the lancha. She knew that Ramón acted as the Dog’s foreman at the Ciudad Blanca site, and that he was responsible for making sure the diggers did their jobs right. For the past six months, everything had gone fairly well. But Ramón was to be avoided. He was a bad man and liked having authority because it reminded him of his days in the Nicaraguan Army when he was a captain fighting the Sandinistas. Now that he was making real money and actually enjoying this new adventure, he had become intolerable, and extremely vulgar — especially when he talked about women.
The trip to the ruins had not gone well for Ramón. His crew was made up of young guys who had been narco-trafficantes for years. They lacked discipline and couldn’t be trusted. Ramón was known for being tough, which was why Barker and Zarkin had signed him on in the beginning. And once he took over, the tough guy had made it clear to his men that he would shoot anyone found stealing. The rules were simple: work, keep your mouth shut, get paid and live. There was no fooling around with Ramón.
Kidnapping hadn’t originally been part of the deal. He would rather have shot Valeska instead. She caused Señor Barker to make bad decisions. With her around, Barker couldn’t see straight. Already, too much attention had been forced on that bitch. The men were tired, wet and hungry. They wanted their pay and were anxious to leave and hide out in the village before the storm got any worse. They knew full well that Esmeralda might suddenly be forced out to sea. If that happened, they wouldn’t see the color of their money until the next delivery, which could take weeks.
But the Dog had had other things on his mind and had made it clear that he wasn’t going to take any crap from a crew of low-life Garifuna bums who would otherwise be dealing drugs or languishing in an overcrowded jail. He told Ramón that first he would put Valeska back where she belonged. After that, he’d look after the guys. Ramón was furious.
The wound from the bullet that had grazed his arm when they grabbed Valeska was irritating him to no end. But that was a minor detail; he’d look at it later. There was a more serious problem to deal with. Tension was building visibly among the men. Ramón was glad he had brought all their guns on board the yacht before they’d started unloading the goods, because the boys were getting impatient. If they got really pissed off, anything could happen.
“Hey, Ramón. We want our money now!” the big Garifuna shouted.
Ramón yelled back, “Come back when the storm blows over. The boss is busy. Can’t you see?”
Barker joined in. “Look at the current, the wind is picking up. It’s no time to count your dineros. Go over to the village and get something to eat and come back tomorrow when things settle down. I’ll pay you then. Comprende?” He untied the line holding the men’s lancha and tossed it down into the boat. “Buenas suerte.” He watched as they drifted away. Ramón just stared at Barker.
“Pendejo,” growled one of the men. (Asshole.)
The two big outboards roared to life, and the guy at th
e wheel gunned the throttle. The lancha spun around and took off toward the village. “Shit, man, you shouldn’t have let them go,” said Ramón.
“Why not? They’ll be back tomorrow after this blows over. You can be sure of that,” replied the Dog.
“But they are almost dry, man.”
“What do you mean, almost dry? It’s fucking pouring.”
“I mean the gas tank is almost dry. They will never make it to shore.”
And in fact, after a short distance, the two motors sputtered and died.
The Dog grabbed his binoculars and took a closer look.
“Whoops, you’re right, it looks like those guys are in a little trouble.” They were drifting fast.
“Somebody ripped off the jerry cans we had on board for the return trip. We were damn lucky to get this far.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Barker’s eyes followed the drifting boat. He cupped his hands and tried to shout over the noise of the wind. “Use the paddles! Row!”
But they were caught in the current and drifting fast out to sea. It was just a matter of time before the huge waves coming in through the pass would smash the lancha and the men to pieces.
Barker looked through the binoculars and laughed. “Holy shit, they’re diving overboard and swimming to shore.”
He handing the glasses to Ramón.
“Sure, it’s the only thing left to do. That’s it for the lancha,” the foreman added.
“Damn, what a waste. But we’ve got another one in Roatán.” Barker shrugged. “Come inside and we’ll clean up that wound before it starts to stink.”
Inside the wheelhouse, they dried off with the thick towels that Shirley had left on the settee. Then Ramón went down and got her to disinfect the gash. Dog turned on the SSB receiver and they listened intently as the radio crackled out the latest forecast. His expression changed from nonchalant to anxious.
“Jesus fucking Christ! The hurricane has turned ninety degrees! Now it’s heading straight for Guanaja.” The Dog slammed his fist on the chart table. “And we’re trapped in this hole with no way out. That hurricane is going to roll right over top of us and we can’t do a thing about it!” He flipped on the intercom. “Rackman! Rackman! Get that nose of yours out of the blow and come up here fast!” A minute or so passed.
“What’s up?” Rackman entered the wheelhouse. He squinted and looked out at the raging river.
“Man, it’s heavy-duty out there.” He wiped his nose with a dirty hand.
“Heavy-duty? We ain’t seen nothing yet. I just got the weather from Miami. The hurricane has turned around. We’re gonna get it right in the kisser.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, you jerk. Now get the guys on deck and prepare the boat for the worst. First thing, set the second anchor and run out all the chain we have. Then strip the deck. Just leave the cases where they are and tie them down good with dock line.”
Rackman just stood there with his mouth wide open.
“So move. It’s coming in fast,” Barker urged. “The wind speed’s already pushing sixty-five knots.”
“Hey, Barker, what’s that sound?” blurted out Ramón, coming up from the main salon with a clean bandage on his arm.
“The wind in the rigging,” said Dog. “Is Shirley still down there?”
“She was a few minutes ago. She did a nice job cleaning the wound on my arm.”
“Shirley! Bring me up a scotch!”
There was no answer.
“Shirley!”
No answer.
“Goddamn it! Where the fuck is that bitch? I’ll go get the stuff myself.”
Ronnie summoned the rest of the crew and ordered them to lash down everything on deck. Shirley had disappeared into her cabin and locked the door. Things were starting to get a little too out of control for her liking.
Barker opened up a new bottle of scotch, poured himself a double shot, and then went down to the cargo hold to have a little talk with Valeska. He found her in a pitiful state on the floor leaning against the bulkhead. Her hands were bound behind her back with zip ties, her clothes were in shreds and her face was smeared with mud. But what luck he’d had to be able to grab her away from the Frenchman. Maybe he could talk some sense into her before it was too late.
“I hope that Ramón didn’t rough you up too much. He can be pretty bad when he wants to,” he said, stroking her hair. “But you really look beautiful when you’re tied up and covered with dirt.”
“Even more so when I’m not.”
Barker was surprised by her calm tone of voice. He placed his hand under her chin and tilted her head up so she could see him. “Sorry to interrupt your little escapade into the jungle. I just wanted to help you out, perhaps even save your life. You’ll be much better off here on board Esmeralda. There’s a hurricane on the way.”
“You’re so kind to think of my well-being. I guess that’s what you had in mind when your two thugs attacked me in Tegucigalpa, or when you ran us off the road in Roatán.”
He sat down beside her. “Valeska, I’m really sorry about the way things have worked out. Tell me, what are you, the Frenchman and that boat of his doing in Barra Patuca?”
“We came here to make a deal with you. What do you think? Legris knows about your little cocaine scam, and so do some other people who are pretty influential. They’ll be down here in no time to move in on your operation if anything happens to him or me.”
Barker laughed. “That sounds sort of funny, coming from you. Okay, what’s the deal?”
“It’s easy, just treat me well — at least better than he does. You’ll see. Things will improve.”
“Yes, to be honest, I’ve thought about it. We could pick up where we left off.” He brushed a hand over her breast. “And I’m sure that you’ll appreciate having money in your bank account again. Maybe we could become partners again. Things are going very well at the moment and I have a great capacity for forgiveness. It’s one of my best qualities. Think it over.”
She didn’t flinch. She even managed to smile.
“We’ll have to do some more talking, my dear,” he said with a rasping voice.
“Yes, but in the meantime, please take these things off my wrists; they’re cutting into my skin. I won’t be going anywhere.”
Barker took the Leatherman from its pouch on his belt and snipped off the zip ties.
“Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Valeska, how could you get involved with that guy? It was the Frenchman’s fault this all went sour. He got me so pissed off. I just couldn’t see straight for a while.”
“Jealousy does that,” said Valeska.
“Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I deserved the treatment you gave me. For a while I made some big mistakes.” He almost sounded like he meant it.
“You shouldn’t have started fooling around with that little gang of whores in Puerto Cortés. I just can’t handle that sort of thing, Dog. You knew that, but you did it anyway. To tell you the truth, my relationship with Jack Legris was my way to get even with you. That was it.”
“Well, it worked. But I can forgive you if you can forgive me. Maybe we could try again.”
“Yes, maybe,” said Valeska.
“Once this storm is over and we are back in Roatán, we can take all the time we want to work things out. Think about it. Perhaps tonight if you’re nice to me, you’ll end up in a real bed. Meanwhile, I’ll tell Shirley to bring you something to eat.”
“Dog, you’re a real bastard, but I still like you a little.”
“I like it when you say those things. But, Valeska, I’ve told you a dozen times before. My name is Doug, not Dog. While you’re sitting here thinking about how good your life could be with me, practice pronouncing my name.”
“I’ll try.”
Barker left her sitting there in the semi-darkness and locked the door behind him, confident she would listen to sense. She was an intelligent woman, he reasoned. It w
ould just take a little more coaxing, and then she’d be back where she belonged, with a real man. His mind flashed back to their first encounter. Valeska sure knew how to please when she had a mind to. This time, things would be different. He would be more careful with her, and treat her the way she deserved — that is, if she played along.
Although the ferocity of the winds had decreased slightly during the storm’s southern drift, the rain hadn’t. In fact, it had gotten worse — caused in part by the Central American mountain ranges. The massive storm’s feeder bands swirled into its center from both the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean, setting the stage for disaster. No one has ever really understood exactly why hurricane Mitch turned south when it did and headed straight for La Mosquitia. But when the hurricane hit the continent, rain began to fall at the rate of twenty-four inches per day. At the same time, fifty-foot waves slammed into the northeastern Honduran coast. As a result, the sea rose fifteen feet, rushed inland and flooded the lowlands. As if this wasn’t enough, the overflowing rivers cascading down from the mountains took with them many small villages. In low-lying areas along the Patuca, floodwaters covered the roofs. Within twenty-four hours, thousands of people were homeless or washed away.
THE CHIEF
It had been another long, uneventful day on board the Talassa as it plodded up the Saint Lawrence River toward Québec City. The Chief had finished his shift in the noisy engine room and returned to his cabin to clean up. After a long hot shower, he went to the galley and grabbed a bite to eat. Then he had a smoke up on deck and spent the rest of the evening in his cabin watching a hockey game on TV. At 2200 hours, he watched the news. It was all about a massive hurricane heading straight for the Yucatán. He hoped it would burn itself out before it hit the Mexican coast. Later that night, he woke up thinking about Jacques Legris. There was something going down, but he couldn’t get a fix on it.
It was midmorning when he got up, dressed and stepped on deck just in time to see the light at Île Rouge off to the port side. They were making good time. A blast of cold moist wind pushed him back and made him shiver. He hated the cold. The Chief frowned, turned, pulled the heavy door open and stepped back inside the ship. A few minutes later, he was up on the bridge sipping from a large mug of hot tea as he checked the local marine forecast on the weather computer. Nothing extraordinary on the Saint Lawrence, a little rain and that was it.
