by Chris Niles
Shelby shrugged, shook the garment out, then quickly pulled it over her jeans and tee-shirt. She zipped up the front before donning the hardhat. After glancing at her reflection in one of several mirrors dotting the room, she said, “I look like a natural.”
Tim laughed. “Let’s see how natural you feel with some tools in your hand.”
He pushed a door open, and Shelby gasped as she stepped from the bright, clean equipment room into a corridor carved from the mountain itself. Long fluorescent bulbs lined both sides of the tunnel, the rough-hewn stone throwing shadows down the jagged walls.
“Watch your step.”
Shelby glanced down at the stone floor, its once jagged surface worn smooth from years of use by the miners.
They continued down the corridor, pausing at an open passage into a long, well-lit cavern. Along the back wall, evenly-spaced, high-rimmed stainless steel tables resembling giant, shallow sinks sat below restaurant-style arched faucets. At the end of each table was a sturdy cart with wide tires and two small clear plastic bins, one mounted to each corner.
“This is the washing room.” Keane explained. “The miners bring the extracted stone back here to sort the waste from the gems. In most operations, they’re forced outside to wash and sort stones in the mountain streams, but there are many problems with that. It’s difficult work to do, crouched by the side of a running stream, and it’s far more comfortable for them to use these tables.”
He led her toward the end of the room, where two women stood at a table, sorting through a pile of rocks, spraying them with water, inspecting them, then tossing them into the cart.
Keane continued. “But more important than comfort, my miners are safe from the raiders here. Up in the hills, cartels like the Rojas would wait for a miner to sort his stones, then would catch him on his way down the mountain and, what do you Americans call it? Mug him? Yes. Mugging. Many villagers have been hurt and a few are killed every year by these thugs. I wanted a better operation to help keep my people — and my product — safe. Win-win.”
Shelby’s head cocked to the side. “You say ‘his,’ but most of the miners I’ve seen here are women?”
“Indeed.” Keane’s cheeks warmed as they pulled his lips into a smile. “Historically, men have done most of the mining. It was hard and dangerous work. But I find if I can provide better conditions and security, the women miners actually have an excellent eye for culling the stones and finding gems in the trickiest places. Production has gone up three-hundred-percent since I brought women miners in.”
One of the women at the washing table tucked her sprayer back into its holder, then spoke to Shelby in halting English. “Mister Keane is not say everything. He make many job for us in village. Nobody not work. He build school for our children and clinic with good doctor for when we sick. He teach us English. He is angel to us.”
Keane’s face flushed as he saw tears forming in the woman’s eyes. “It’s good business to take care of the community.” He wrapped the woman in a hug, then playfully nudged her back to the washing table with a wink. “Now get back to work, Marielle.”
She grabbed her sprayer, humming as she resumed sorting her stones.
Keane cleared his throat, then led Shelby further down the hall. He was describing the various steps in the mining process when a man in a black uniform rushed toward them.
“Patrón, I just receive this from one of our runners in the city.” He reached across Shelby to pass his phone to Keane. Its screen displayed a photo of a blonde woman, clearly American, sitting on a barstool beside Coco Rojas. Keane pinched the screen to zoom in on the woman’s face when Shelby snatched the phone from his hand.
“That’s Kate. My friend from Shark Key. The ones who have Eddie. Who have—” she cut herself off, then zoomed the photo out. “Who is that she’s—”
Keane took her by the shoulders and nodded toward the guard, who pulled the phone from her hands and tucked it back into his pocket. “What do we know, Carlos?”
The guard sucked in a breath. “Our man, he only hear bits of them talking. But the woman, she is asking dangerous questions. And Coco, he tell her to come up to the sanctuary tomorrow morning.”
Keane’s breath stopped.
“Shelby, you know this woman?”
Her eyes widened as she nodded. “Her friend is some kind of computer wizard. What if she knows I’m here? What if—”
“Miss Ellis, I need you to be honest with me. Where are the emeralds you were carrying for the Rojas?”
“I can’t…”
“I know you are trying to keep your son safe. You don’t know who to trust. You don’t want to tell anyone. But she’s being lured into a trap. If this woman knows, or worse, if she has them, then the Rojas won’t stop until she tells them what they need to know. And if those gems are anywhere close to your son, then he’s in danger until they’re stopped, once and for all.”
Shelby crumpled to the damp, rocky mine floor, then stretched her hand up toward the guard. “I need to make a phone call.”
Chapter Forty
The little engine groaned as Kate guided her rental Jeep around a hairpin turn and the road began to climb. She downshifted, and the compact jumped forward, filled with new life. She’d been navigating the winding roads for nearly an hour, weaving up the mountainside into the thick cloud cover, through a pass, then down again, travelling deeper into the Central Andes to the southwest of Bogota. Below the engine’s whine, the radio alternated between current hits and the rapid banter of two morning DJs. If not for the language, Kate wouldn’t have been able to tell it from bad morning drive-time radio in the States.
From the passenger seat, her phone announced, “In one hundred meters, turn left onto Unnamed Road.”
Slowing, she peered into the thick foliage and searched for the turn indicated by the posh British accent.
“Turn left.”
Just before a narrow break in the trees, a bright white sign stood among the long spindly alder trees, sporting blue text and a bright red arrow.
Mina la Venecia: Keane S.A.
Beneath it, strapped to the signpost with zip-ties or twine were several other signs, faded and pocked with rust. Among them was a brown sign with faded white lettering: “Santuario de Perezosos, 6 km.”
Kate pulled onto the narrow dirt skirt. Ahead of her, the surface faded to two bare tracks straddling a band of grassy weeds. Pocked with holes, some filled with stone, others a reflective surface of oily water and mud. She shifted the Jeep into four-wheel drive and eased out the clutch.
Her concentration was put to the test, dodging potholes and keeping clear of the encroaching jungle. It was clear this track seldom saw vehicular traffic, but as she pivoted around another tight hairpin and the slope of the mountain fell away to her right, Kate prayed she wouldn’t encounter an oncoming vehicle. Occasionally, people walked in twos and threes. When there was room, they hopped from the track and allowed her to pass. When there wasn’t, her patience was tested, rolling slowly behind them until they reached the next turn.
Like this, Kate zig-zagged the Jeep up the side of the steep mountain, through the thick clouds, and finally over a high ridge. At a break in the trees, she stopped the vehicle, climbed out, then approached the drop-off with a gasp.
The valley below opened in front of her, with sweeping slopes of thick green rainforest descending to a winding river. She traced the sparkling path of the waterway to where the mouth of the valley was flanked by two tall, narrow peaks, one on each bank of the river.
She pulled her phone out.
“Continue west on Unnamed Road.”
Kate smirked and tapped the mute button, then opened the camera app to capture the untamed beauty stretching out beneath her. As she snapped, a pair of elderly women whom she’d passed a few minutes before rounded the curve and climbed the road to meet her.
“Buenos días, señorita. You are far from the tourist sights of the city. You’re maybe going to see the sloths?”<
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Kate nodded and lowered her camera. “Sí. Yes. How much farther is it?”
“Oh, it’s not far now. Not far for you.”
Kate’s gaze drifted out across the vista. “What river is this?”
“Rio Minero. Our ancestors have lived in this valley since the beginning. Those peaks, they are Fura and Tena. The first of our people.”
“Fura and Tena?”
“Sí. In the beginning, Aré, the Creator, made the woman, Fura. She was the most beautiful creature in the valley. And then Aré made a handsome man to be her partner, and he gave them this land as their own. And they lived many years without aging, until the white man Zarbi arrived and drew Fura away from her love.”
The second woman pointed to the tall spires. “Tena chased the man away, but their love was tainted. As judgment Aré, the Creator, took their immortality. They grew old and frail, and were filled with sorrow for their losses. Fura cried, and her tears fell into the river and became pure, glittering jewels. And when they died, Aré set them one on each side of the river, to remind future generations to remain pure and true.”
“Glittering jewels?” Kate recalled the bright sign on the main road.
“Sí. Deep in the stone throughout this valley and all the mountains around it, Fura’s tears are found. She provides a livelihood for the villagers who find work in the mines.”
“So, there’s a lot of mining around here?” Kate asked.
The first woman’s chin dipped. “The ways of our ancestors are long past. Working in the mines is the only way our people can survive now. And when a mine dies, it means disaster for the village. This happened across the valley not long ago. The lucky ones found their way into the city. The others…” The woman trailed off, her gaze resting on the rising slope across from them.
The other woman set her basket on the rocky soil. “We are not wealthy, but we do not need to be. Many of the small mines are owned by local families. The rich do not care that working the mines is killing the villagers. We are many, and jobs are few. When one is too bent and frail to dig, another will take his place. But the Mina la Venecia, he is good. He pays his miners well, provides helmets and new, sharp tools. He gives them rest, even has a doctor there to attend to the miners and their families. And he hires women as well as men. We pray every day for him, and we thank the creator for bringing the Irishman to our village.”
The Irishman.
Vova’s words echoed in Kate’s memory.
Their war against the Irishman has killed many innocents.
If the Rojas were at war with the Irishman, then perhaps she might find an ally in the man.
“The Irishman’s mine is nearby?”
“Sí. You will pass by it just before you reach the sloths. They are on opposite sides of this ridge.”
Kate’s pulse climbed as she started the Jeep’s engine then pulled back onto the narrow track.
Fifteen minutes later, the Jeep emerged from a thick tunnel of foliage into a small dirt lot. A cool drizzle splashed in puddles across the rough, pocked surface. In contrast to the modern security gate and fencing she’d seen surrounding the entrance to the emerald mine next door, a rickety wooden privacy fence lined the end, funneling visitors into a narrow chute covered with a thick thatched roof. Its ends were open to the jungle, with handmade displays on one side and a counter along the other. Kate lifted the hood of her rain jacket and pressed forward.
Beyond the counter, a wide path cut through the jungle, flanked by tall mesh enclosures. A couple inched into the trees at the edge of the path. The woman’s elbow rested in her partner’s hand, and her body shook. As the man pointed up toward the canopy, the woman’s knees buckled, and she burst into squealing tears.
“It’s a sloth. It’s really a real sloth.”
About ten feet above, dangling from a thick branch, hung a light brown sloth gnawing on a bright orange mango.
Kate approached a young blonde-haired woman more focused on picking at the dirt under her fingernail than on greeting visitors. She seemed to have not noticed the scene unfolding just inside the gate.
“Buenos dias?”
The woman jumped, startled. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you pull in. Good morning. Welcome to the Santuario de Perezosos.” The long “o” in her “sorry” reminded Kate of a Canadian couple who’d docked at Shark Key the past spring.
“Morning.” She glanced over to the couple. The woman was now on the ground, pointing up and crying. “Should you see if they need help?”
The girl smirked. “Nah. Happens all the time.”
Kate shrugged. “So, what part of Canada are you from?”
The girl blushed. “Actually, northern Minnesota. But I guess it’s as good as Canada. We were closer to Winnipeg than anything.” She reached for a ragged pamphlet at the edge of the counter. “It’s twelve dollars, US. Includes a booklet.”
Kate scanned the price list. “I don’t see guided tours on here. I’m a journalist doing an article on ecotourism, and I’d really like—”
“We don’t have any tours scheduled for today.”
Kate’s stomach quivered. “I was told to meet someone for the 11:00 tour?”
The blonde’s brows tightened, then she picked up a bulky phone receiver and pressed three numbers. Kate drifted around the little vestibule. Placards with photos of sloths in the wild boasted descriptions in both Spanish and English.
On average, the sloth can move about three feet per minute.
The Sloth spends most of its time in the trees, although it will climb down once every seven days to urinate and defecate.
The Sloth’s diet consists mostly of leaves.
The Sloth is related to the aardvark.
She had just shifted to read the next display when the young woman’s voice rose over the chirping and rustling of the rainforest. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry.”
There it was again. Sore-ry. Kate smiled.
“I was mistaken. Someone will be with you shortly to show you around.”
Across the wide hall, the girl began tucking items into her bag, then she hopped down off her stool and started around the corner.
“Wait. How much is it? Do I—”
“Just wait here. I’m on lunch break.” She disappeared into the damp jungle.
Chapter Forty-One
Kate paced in circles around the tiny vestibule. A few moments later, the couple she’d seen at the sloth enclosure rushed up the path, tumbled into their rental car, then peeled out of the parking lot. Kate spun back toward the path, right into a six-foot-three bronzed god of a man. She stumbled, her neck tilted back.
His light hair had a deliberately tousled cut, and his chin sported a perfectly scruffy three-day beard. At her eye level, a tee-shirt two sizes too small barely concealed a chest and abs that screamed “gym-rat.”
Kate stumbled back two steps. The man stepped forward to fill the space, then took her hand. “My name is Colin. I’m from San Diego, and I’ll be your guide today.” Colin’s piercing blue eyes stared down at her.
As she caught her breath, she shook her head and glanced around. Everything about this meeting felt off-kilter, like a pair of binoculars that was set just a little too wide. She gave his hand a brief pump, then pulled her fingers from his and adjusted her rain jacket.
She pulled her notebook out with a flourish then stepped out into the drizzle. “How long has the sanctuary been here, Colin-from-San-Diego?”
He started down the path, meandering at a slow pace and stopping to act out the story as he told it. “The Santuario de Perezosos was founded in 1996 when Jacinda Mendez found an abandoned juvenile sloth along the edge of her yard. His right arm had been injured” — Colin stretched his own right arm out, then dangled it helplessly in the air — “and he wasn’t able to climb back up into the canopy or pull himself along the ground. So she called a vet, then nursed him back to health. She named him Harry. They grew attached, but then the time came to release him back into the jungle.”
Colin stopped and pointed deep into the thick jungle.
“I take it that didn’t go as planned?” Kate played along.
“It did not.” He took two more steps down the path, then stopped in front of a small clearing, enclosed with thick wire fencing. “She took him into the jungle near where she’d found him and placed him on a branch as high as she could. The next morning, she found him sitting on her porch, right outside her front door.”
He pointed to a low placard displaying photos of Jacinda Mendez’s porch, the woman in a rocking chair, cradling a sloth in her lap.
“After that, she became known around the region as the Sloth Lady. Anytime anyone came across an injured or abandoned animal, they called her. And before long, she had a new calling. She began to raise funds, bought this piece of land, and the rest, as they say…”
“Is history?” Kate rolled her eyes.
Colin laughed, then turned to the enclosure and pointed. “This is Sasquatch.”
Kate followed his finger to the far corner of the cage. Hanging motionless from a branch near the top was a large, blonde animal with a dark brown face.
“He’s our oldest sloth at the sanctuary. We believe he’s about thirty-two years old. He came to us after being hit on a mountain road.”
“Does that happen often? Sloths getting hit?”
Colin smirked. “Well, it’s not like they can run out in front of the car, so no. Not really. But it does happen every now and then. Usually when it’s dark or when the driver just isn’t paying enough attention. But mostly, drivers are careful and they stop for crossing animals. Sasquatch here just caught some bad luck. But the driver immediate called us, the vet went out, and here he is, living out his days in luxury.”
He ended the story with a curt nod, as if he was writing a period with his chin. Then he continued down the path to the next enclosure.
“So, you have a vet on staff here?”
