“Margaret Schneider. I’m a writer. I will … tell your story to the world.”
She heard a scuffling noise outside, saw Glo being released from her chair, but still gagged and her wrists bound. She was refusing to rise from the ground.
Halcón butted his cigarette, checked his watch. “Muy bien,” he said. “Una escritora, ella. Vámonos, amigos.”
Freed her from her chair, Maggie was led to the door. Her knees locked and her legs gave way and she stumbled over the sill. Arms grasped her, pulled her upright. She cast one last look about at the many staring eyes. Senator Walker, who had managed to regain a seated position, was hopping in his chair toward the door, crying Gloria-May’s name; grief and fury were in his eyes.
– 5 –
Maggie’s watch had been taken, so she was guessing that she and Gloria-May and their six masked captors had been trudging for an hour along one of the lodge’s trails, en route, it would seem, to the towering waterfall under which she had bathed a few days ago. The rain made the ground slippery, and from time to time one of the guerrillas would lose footing, and fall and curse.
Though tense with fright, she was managing better than they, taking some small comfort that her walking shoes had firm grip. Though her hands had been freed, she was tethered by a rope tied around her waist; the other end was knotted to the belt of the lanky young man in thick glasses, whom they called Buho: Spanish for owl. He spoke few words to her, but was solicitous and polite.
Gloria-May was still being limply uncooperative. A string hammock, fetched from the lodge’s balcony, served as her litter, two guerrillas taking shifts at the ends. From time to time, one of her porters would slip and Glo would fall hard onto mud and rocks. She was altogether a pitiful figure, sullen and gagged, clothed only in her mid-thigh cocktail dress, wrists and ankles trussed. Hiking boots that had been retrieved from her cabin were fitted onto her feet. Before fleeing the lodge, the soldiers of the Comando Cinco de Mayo had looted the rooms.
At the head of this convoy was the older man, well over fifty, Maggie guessed, though she was unable to see his face. She had caught his name: Coyote. Slightly built, bent as if with the labours of a lifetime, he had the weathered look and manners of a campesino, a man of the country. His comrades’ feet were clad in leather, but Coyote wore gumboots, and seemed uncomfortable in them, perhaps more used to walking in bare feet. Clutching a long machete in his hand, he walked warily, eyes to the ground.
Apparently, they had all assumed animal names, except for the short rotund fellow they called Gordo. She was unsure what manner of beast was a Zorro, but the little man answering to that name gave the impression of an ill-natured weasel. She particularly dreaded him, a volatile man, twice armed, with a large-calibre pistol and one of the two submachine guns. Whenever he lost his footing it swung about dangerously, and he’d mutter, “Eewai puta,” some manner of Tico curse. When not taking turn with the hammock, he walked beside the black woman. From the reproving, familiar way she spoke to Zorro, Maggie gathered they were partnered – she remembered the woman snatching the champagne bottle from his hands at the lodge. They called her Tayra. At the lodge, Maggie had seen a photograph of such an animal, an otter-like forest forager.
Wiry old Coyote and their leader, Halcón – which meant falcon – were the fittest of the troop; the others were puffing and red-faced with the effort of their steep ascent. All carried guns except Halcón, whose only weapon was a short machete. Around his neck dangled a compass, and several keys and a small flashlight swung from a chain at his belt. On his wrist was a gold-plated Rolex – once Orvil Schumenbacker’s. From time to time, he took a small transistor short-wave from a jacket pocket and held it to his ear. He rarely spoke, but his dark eyes were active, occasionally resting on Maggie, who felt their intensity.
She was curious to know what they looked like behind their kerchiefs but realized she would be at risk if able to identify them. What were their so-called just claims — she had not seen the list — and who was this Benito Madrigal whose name they had cheered? As frightened as she was, she was determined to maintain her composure, to be as compliant as possible. She had read somewhere about the proper etiquette for a hostage: remain alert, observe, be polite, don’t provoke anger.
She assumed ransom would be sought and wondered how much they would demand. Surely they were not anticipating much profit from Margaret Schneider. How many millions did they think Gloria-May was worth? Senator Walker might not have great personal means, but presumably he had wealthy backers.
They must have some secure hideout, but where? This trail stopped at the waterfall, and searchers would quickly scour it from beginning to end.
She thought of her parents and brothers receiving word of her kidnapping, their dismay and horror. Of slighter concern, though it niggled at her, was that her manuscript had been left behind at the Jungle House. The plot she was living seemed more frightening and ill-boding than any she had devised. She tried positive thinking as a stress relief, seeking to persuade herself that no one had reason to harm her; this was an adventure, an exciting story to tell her friends.
The column halted, and now Maggie understood why Coyote had been treading with so much caution. Weaving across the road was a snake-like creature with legs: a skink. Suddenly, a hovering kite darted down and snatched at the tail. The long wiggling appendage broke off, and the lizard scampered into the underbrush, the raptor carrying away its consolation prize. Despite her anxious state, Maggie watched in fascination: nature had given the skink a clever survival ruse. What means of escape could Maggie devise?
The comrades of Comando Cinco de Mayo had little in the way of supplies – a few small packs laden with the stolen valuables — so they couldn’t intend to travel far. In a few hours the sun would set, and surely they would not chance the jungle at night. If Maggie and Glo could somehow untie themselves in the darkness, they could slip away unseen. These out-of-condition outlaws might not pursue them and perhaps would flee, and she and Glo could return to the path at dawn. After playing with the idea, she dismissed it; they had been warned: if you try to run away we must kill you, we are sorry, lo siento. She wasn’t sure if they meant it, but didn’t want to push them that far.
Maggie noticed Halcón glancing at his watch. They were near the falls; she could hear the roar of the water. It was about three o’clock, perhaps two and a half hours since they’d left the Eco-Rico Lodge. How long would it take for help to come? Those at the lodge would likely have been able to free themselves quickly, but even husky Agent Johnson, at a trot, would be a few hours along a muddy, slippery road reaching the town of Silencio and, presumably, a telephone.
Halcón led them directly to the high, roaring falls and its deep pool. Zorro let his end of the hammock slide, Glo tumbling to the ground with a curse muffled by her gag. Maggie reacted: “Do you people have to be so rough with her? Let me talk to her. Please take off Mrs. Walker’s gag.”
Halcón seemed to give the matter some thought. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, he stuck one into a mouth-level hole in his blue kerchief; the effect was almost comical, though Maggie did not dare a smile. He lit the cigarette with a wooden match, then spoke some words to Buho, who removed the bandanna from Glo’s mouth. Maggie knelt and brushed the muddy hair from her eyes.
“Viva la libertad,” Glo said. “What a fucking bummer this day has become.”
“Glo, your behind must be bruised purple. Let’s just go along with these folks, okay? On your feet, chum.” Maggie kissed her cheek, whispering closely, “Easier to escape.”
Glo struggled to a seated position, glared at Halcón. “You are an inconsiderate prick.” He didn’t respond but seemed to catch the message, his eyes turning cold. “Okay, damn it, I’ll walk.”
The ropes released, Glo massaged her wrists and ankles, then rose uncertainly. Halcón instructed Tayra to tie herself to Glo’s waist in the same manner Maggie was yoked to Buho. Glo offered no resistance, folded her arms, glared lugubriously t
hrough the drizzling rain at the dense jungle on the other side of the river. “Now what?” she said. “Do we sprout wings and fly?”
Halcón was craning up at the brim of the waterfall twenty metres above them. “Dónde?” he asked.
“Aqui,” said Coyote, who stepped onto a boulder and yanked at a vine trailing from a heavily buttressed tree. A high limb shook and another pull released a stout rope weighted by a leather-and-metal harness. Unfurling behind it came a slender rope ladder.
Maggie felt both admiration and dismay at the forethought that had gone into stashing this equipment; she would not have thought these seeming amateurs so enterprising. Coyote had been their advance scout, she realized; the wiry campesino had likely cut a trail through the jungle to the top of the waterfall. The strategy was ingenious: no search party would think to look up there.
Coyote expertly fastened the bottom of the ladder to the tree trunk, strapped on the harness, and began clambering up, into the mist. At the top, he swung himself over the tree limb and onto the ledge at the lip of the falls.
As the safety harness came down again, Halcón turned to Gordo. The portly little man hesitated, staring upwards with a frozen smile.
“Rápido!” Halcón barked.
Gordo’s climb was less difficult than Coyote’s because the safety line was being tugged from above. It looked as if Coyote was cranking a hand winch. Once at the top, Gordo raised his arms in triumph. Maggie could barely hear his shout over the noise of the falls: “Viva Benito Madrigal!” Zorro went up the ladder next, strapping his machine gun on tightly, acting nonchalant.
Halcón then handed the harness to Tayra, who passed it to Gloria-May with a smile. “This little outfit will look better on you, my American amiga.” It was the first time she had spoken in English — the accent was Caribbean.
“I said I’d walk, not climb. I am definitely not going up in that thing.”
“Oh, yes, missie, you are going up that thang,” Tayra said. She and Halcón wrestled her into the harness. Glo glared at them with silent contempt. When Halcón’s hand strayed near her breast, she batted it away.
“Tranquila, señora,” Halcón said, unflustered.
Maggie chimed in: “Yes, Gloria-May, tranquila.” She was sorry to be short with her balky companion, but felt they should make the best of a bad situation. They might be held captive for some time, and there would be no easy flight to freedom. The important thing was to cooperate – and stay alive. Aware she could be winched to the top if all else failed, Gloria-May reluctantly followed Tayra up the ladder; at one point Glo had to brace her travelling companion when she slipped on the wet rungs. At the top, Tayra was embraced by Zorro, who raised her arm in shared triumph.
Halcón indicated he would follow last; Maggie, wearing the harness, would go in tandem with Buho. She had worn a similar harness during the Eco-Rico canopy tour, and felt reasonably secure, but Buho was climbing stiffly beneath her, jerking on the tether, slowing her. He seemed, physically, her male counterpart: skinny, myopic, and awkward. He truly looked owl-like, staring up at her with large anxious eyes behind thick lenses, the kerchief over his nose like a beak. He didn’t seem the type to cause harm, and she wondered if she could find a way to relate to him.
Halfway up, her line was pulled taut again by the slow-moving Buho and she paused to wait for him. Finding herself finally out of the earshot of the others, she spoke bluntly. “Buho, why are you involved in this? Kidnapping is a crime. I don’t think you’re a criminal.”
He blinked, was slow to respond. “I am a fighter for the revolution. Don Benito says a revolutionary goes everywhere with life in the hollow of his hand, ready to sacrifice it at any moment.” His words sounded as if pulled from a well-thumbed tract.
“Who is Don Benito?”
“Benito Madrigal, our guide and pilot, who went to prison because he struggled for justice. Now they are torturing him. This is the story you must tell to the world.”
Maggie felt the tug of the winch and began climbing again. The brief conversation had lessened her fear. Her offer to memorialize their deeds in writing must have tantalized them: it was good insurance. Clearly, a prisoner exchange was one of the rebels’ demands. Surely that was attainable; it might satisfy them. Kidnappings in Latin America — frequent enough to make numbing demands on the attention span of CSKN’s viewers – were as often committed by out-and-out criminals as by revolutionary fundraisers, and hostage deaths were rare. These desperados were not grubbing mercenaries; they were believers in their naive political cause.
They seemed, however, out of touch with the reality of international power politics. I have message for America. We take our contry back. The economic monolith to the north might feel a flea bite from the Fifth of May Commando’s desperate foray.
A stunning view was spreading below: the twisting river valley, the grassy path meandering downhill, fading into the virgin forest burgeoning from the mountainsides. Under normal circumstances, Maggie would have been exhilarated by the sight, but now she was too disconcerted by her reality, which was far more hair-raising than any adventure she had contrived for Fiona.
The sun was behind clouds, but a gloom in the air suggested it would soon descend: maybe there was an hour and a half left of good light. Once she was a few rungs higher on the ladder, she noticed a plume of smoke in the distance. Perhaps it was coming from the lodge, a signal to passing aircraft. Searchers may already be on their trail.
She paused again to wait for Buho. Below, Halcón was pacing, smoking, listening to his radio. She felt an anxious yank from above and resumed her climb, finally hopping onto the ledge above the falls. She shrugged out of the harness and crouched beside Glo, who was shivering with the cold of approaching evening. They gazed across the valley at the pillar of smoke breaking up in the wind. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Glo said.
“We just have to keep our heads, Glo. Things will improve from here. I’m sure they’ll have a warm shelter nearby.”
“Little miss ray of sunshine.”
“Look at them — they’re more miserable than you are.” The guerrillas, bedraggled and grimy, had taken on long faces as they looked up the Savegre River, wider here above the falls and slower-moving. Were they to follow it upstream? Maggie saw no evidence of a trail.
“We’re fucked, honey. Chester doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. It’s one of his campaign themes.”
“These people need us alive, Glo. That’s the way this kind of operation works.”
They fell silent as Halcón reached the top. He pulled up the rope ladder and balled it with the safety line and the hammock, then waded upriver and stuffed all the equipment into a cavity. With some effort, he and the others rolled a boulder on top, hiding the cache from view.
The next stage of their trek was a daunting scramble upstream along the rocky bank of the river. The march was punctuated by frequent oaths as one or another slipped on the slimy rocks or had to detour into the water. For a long stretch, they had no recourse but to wade: the riverbanks were lined with prickly palms and a species of spiny tree. However physically awkward when surrounded by the trappings of civilization, Maggie found herself reasonably sure-footed in the wilderness, more agile than most of her exhausted companions. Glo, though remaining sour and uncommunicative, made no effort to slow their progress.
As the sun toiled ever lower to the horizon, the guerrillas began showing signs of anxiety, obviously behind schedule. Gordo was especially pooped, barely able to lift his feet. Buho was limping, his feet swollen. All of them were hungry. Maggie had taken only a few pieces of fruit at the aborted lunch.
But finally, where the river flattened over a bed of pebbles, they came to a sandbar. Coyote, with a groan of relief, pulled off his rubber boots and tied them to his pack. Maggie noticed footprints on the sandbar, the deeper hoof markings of horses, and the prints of other smaller animals. A path crossed the river here, she could see it winding into the forest from its banks. A campesino tra
il, Maggie surmised. There might be scattered farms nearby.
Halcón, scowling at Glo, issued an order. When Tayra attempted to gag her, Glo slapped her hands: “Don’t touch me, you whore.”
“Rich bitch,” Tayra said. Zorro roughly pinned Glo’s arms from behind, twisting her wrists, as Tayra tightened the bandanna over her mouth. Halcón spoke sharply to Zorro, who released his grip. Halcón then sent Maggie a penetrating look. “I am tranquila,” she softly said.
“Vámonos.” Halcón again gave the lead to Coyote, who strode barefoot up the path to the right, but halted after a few minutes, stopping the column, sniffing the air. The scent came to Maggie, too, a stink that recalled to her the pens at the Klosky’s hog farm on the highway to Melfort. Coyote began talking rapidly; Maggie caught the word “sainos.”
“Peccaries,” Buho translated. “He says they are coming to the river to drink. If there are many, they can be dangerous; they are like dogs in a pack.”
Maggie looked around for a tree to climb, but those nearest were armed with ferocious thorns. The odour was growing intense now, and she could hear a drumbeat of little marching feet, human-sounding grumblings, and an even more curious sound, like teeth chattering.
Coyote led a retreat to the river, and they waded about thirty metres upstream. The sun had set; in half an hour there would be absolute darkness. Now came the pigs, perhaps thirty in the herd, black and grey with white collars and bibs. They filed down to the river, complaining and chattering.
Maggie was more absorbed than frightened by the sight. The peccaries stank like rancid farts but did not seem threatening. Zorro muttered something, then cockily sloshed down the river, and before Halcón could check him he raised his pistol. “Chuletas de cerdo,” he said, and fired.
The shot rang like a thunderclap, one of the animals tottered onto its side, and the others bolted back up the path. Halcón directed a few menacing oaths at Zorro while fingering the blade of his machete as if for sharpness. Maggie guessed the meaning of one slang word: “huevos.” Tayra joined in, too, with several sharp-tongued comments.
The Laughing Falcon Page 10
