Elmer rejoined them. “How are we getting along here?”
“I have found a brother in spirit,” Halcón said. “We are considering five million for quick delivery.”
“Yeah, quick is the right idea, you don’t want to be living with that squirrel too long. I put four of those pills in his grape Fanta, maybe he’ll dim out again.”
“Slack, there’s one more awkward matter before I fetch our guests. The authorities must understand we are willing to carry out the ultimate threat. Do you think you can make that clear?”
“That you’re prepared to kill them?”
Halcón seemed uncomfortable, maybe preferring a euphemism.
“Don’t worry,” said Elmer. “I’ll do them.”
A chilling reassurance, it produced a long, tight silence.
“I think if you promise them we are all prepared to die, that should be enough.”
Elmer yawned loudly, strolled off. “I don’t want to be seen by them women.”
Halcón’s chair creaked as he rose. “I’ll bring our two subjects separately. Oh, one more thing. Obviously, they mustn’t be told about our little, ah, partnership arrangement.”
“There you go, maje. Underestimating me.”
A moment later, he could hear a lock turn. A light went on inside, gleaming between openings in the shutters, they had power here, all the amenities. He could make out the house now, huge arches, grillwork, the structure lopsided. Behind him, in the trees, a shadowy figure, a glint of metal, an armed guard.
Slack hoped there’d be no last-minute hitch. For instance, Gloria-May may have told Halcón she’d met Slack, described the episode in Bar Balboa, maybe even the sunset cruise. It could prove awkward if he pretended they were strangers.
It was Gloria-May whom Halcón first fetched. She was wearing a short nightdress and seemed confused, as if startled from sleep, but when she saw Slack she smiled. Halcón was behind her, holding a Polaroid camera. He flicked off the interior light as he relocked the door.
“Well, who have we got here?” Glo said, then didn’t allow him to answer. “I remember you. Didn’t I see you in that little restaurant at Manuel Antonio? Got into a big argument with my old man, as I recollect.”
“Yeah, I guess I was pretty fried. Slack. Slack Cardinal.”
“That’s right. Don’t you run some kind of boat charter?”
She was quick. “Kayaks.”
“So you’re our negotiator. What do you reckon I’m worth?” Slack was astounded by how blithe she was in manner. Clearly, she hadn’t been mistreated. If anything, the opposite. “Some works of art are priceless.”
“Aren’t y’all just too suave. Where do you get your corn, fresh out of the garden?” She affected a sultry voice, addressing Halcón. “You got a light there, handsome?”
“We must make this quick, mi hijita.” A casual term of endearment, Halcón had charmed them mercilessly. He held a match for her cigarette, and by its light Glo located Slack, approached his chair.
“You going to take our picture, Hal? Me and this big old hunk?”
Suddenly, Glo was in his lap, an arm around his neck, her cigarette in his face. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, gingerly put one on her waist. She smelled sweetly of night sweat and something aromatic, maybe yesterday’s perfume.
“Cheese,” she said. The bulb flashed. Her smile seemed equally blinding, an athletic pose, a two-fingered salute and a leg raised high, toward the camera.
“Must you look so happy?” Halcón said.
“I want everyone to know we’re okay. I want y’all to say that, Slack.” She gently pinched his cheek, she was too hot and hip for Slack, too damned intimidating.
She got to her feet, serious now, the flirtatious lilt gone from her voice. “Tell them not to be coming here with guns and tanks. We want this whole thing settled peacefully, tell Chester that, tell him I’ll surely divorce him if someone gets hurt.”
“That’s clear enough. Any other message?”
“You can tell him I’m being treated like a lady.”
With the aid of a pen flashlight, Halcón watched the print emerge from the camera. Glo joined him, close, their bodies touching. She chuckled over the photo.
“An excellent close-up of a bare foot,” Halcón said. “But we can make out your faces well enough.” He handed the photo to Slack. “Glo, I must take you in now.”
She didn’t argue. “Toodle-oo, Mr. Kayak Man. Maybe we can run a river some time.” The light went out, metallic sounds of a key in the lock.
Everything went quiet, just the night buzz, then a cough from the man standing guard in the trees. Halcón had only a handful of followers here, not counting Elmer and Benito, all probably greenhorns, but who knows how they would react if panicked? No heavy artillery, he’d definitely insist on that, hustle the women out, then just surround these guys and wait them out. It almost seemed a pity to pull this stunt on them.
This time as the door opened, the light did not go on.
“This way,” said Halcón. “Take my hand.”
“I’m over here, Ms. Schneider. Follow my voice.” Slack sensed her trying to locate him, then felt her bump into his chair, her hand brushing his face, a gentle touch.
“Are you Mr. Cardinal?”
“Slack,” he said. “That’s what they call me.” He hoped she remembered that was a line from her manuscript, but there was silence from her.
“We can release you, Maggie,” Halcón said. “They have paid six hundred thousand dollars for you.”
“You’re joking!” This wasn’t said with astonished delight, she sounded almost miffed.
“Christ, it’s not enough?” Slack said. He wasn’t creating a fabulous first impression, that probably sounded sarcastic to her, he was coming on like the bitter antihero of her novel.
“And what about Glo?”
“That’s a different story,” Slack said. “She’ll come later.”
“When?”
“That all has to be negotiated.” She was no longer touching him, but he sensed her above him, standing, she was quite tall. “We’re doing this in stages.”
“No, we’re not. Do you think I’m capable of being that fickle to a friend? I’m not just going to walk out on her, not for all your money.”
“Run that past me again. Real slow.”
“We’re sticking together, Mr. Cardinal. Maybe you’ve never heard of the concept, but it’s called friendship. We’ve been up and down mountains together, through jungle and up snake-infested streams, and at times we’ve been absolutely terrified, and when we weren’t crying we were laughing. We’ve given each other strength. We’re not afraid.”
It was a big firm speech. Okay, Slack could see it her way, more credit to her, loyalty being such a rare commodity.
“Anyway, I can’t go.” Her voice lost some of its resolution. “I’m writing a book about this whole thing. I haven’t reached the final chapter.”
“I was worried about this,” Halcón said. “Maggie, please think about it.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Halcón turned on his pencil flashlight. “Can I see the money?”
As he approached, Slack undid the straps of the bag, then handed him the wads of money. Halcón played his light on them, fished around, ran an expert thumb through one, then sighed.
“It is with an aching heart I must return it all to you. It has never been my policy to breach a trust.”
Slack was taken aback, the grand gesture, tit for tat.
Maggie commenced a breathless speech: “Now you see what you’re dealing with, Mr…. Okay, Slack. I’m not sure if I like that name, I prefer Jacques. Anyway, Halcón’s not what you expected, is he? You thought of some cold-blooded revolutionary. No, he’s not, he has ideals, he’s been everywhere, fought in important struggles, and you can question his methods but not his objects, because everything you get from Mr. Walker’s rich friends, and I hope it’s a fortune, will be dona
ted to the poor.” She pressed a paper into his hand. “I wrote this out, and it also expresses some of my feelings about these people, how well meaning they are.”
What had we here, another Patty Hearst? He pictured her with a submachine gun, holding up a bank to fund the people’s revolution. Five weeks of bonding had done this.
“And I want you to pass word to my parents. Tell them to relax, because I’m in great shape, just fine. And tell them to get their lives together, their marriage.”
“Okay, Ms. Schneider.”
“I’m not through. If you have any idea where we are, I will hold you in absolute contempt if you tell anyone. Glo says they’ll send snipers, that’s how her husband would like to end this, in blood. Dammit, these are good people, maybe some of them are out of their depth, but … they’ll have to shoot me first.”
Slack gained his feet, then twitched as the camera flashed. He saw her finally, her eyes large and defiant behind her glasses, slender and mop-topped, radiant with courage.
He fumbled for her hand, then whispered in her ear, “I will be back for you, Maggie Schneider.”
PRISONER OF LOVE
– 1 –
It is the twenty-fourth of January as I enter my fifth week of internment at the Darkside of the Moon, three days since Benito Madrigal was deposited here in all his fragmented glory, three days since that big, shuffling redhead whispered his promise to return for me.
Mr. Cardinal seemed confused by what he witnessed here (and how stupefied he looked when the camera flashed). I can only hope he has managed to relay my message that those in charge must reject violent solutions. If the man has any receptive powers at all, he must have grasped that my hosts are harmless.
To give him credit, he has complied with our terms: my note has been read many times on the air, and I have seen it in close-up on Channel Seven. No mention was made in the media, however, of his role as go-between or of the tribute offered — and rejected — for my release. Nor, oddly, has the grant of freedom to Benito Madrigal been made public. I am sensing, from the people-on-the-street interviews, that public opinion is shifting in the commandos’ favour, in particular, the sympathies of the poor.
We are still waiting for Jacques Cardinal’s next visit, hoping he will not be followed, uncertain whether events will end with a bang, a whimper, or waves of fond farewell and misting eyes. But I am more optimistic now, for the opposition (as I have almost begun to regard them) seems eager to come to terms; my worth alone has been assessed at more than half a million dollars.
I remain convinced I took the right course by refusing to part from Gloria-May; I would never dream of leaving such a dear friend to face danger alone. (I will continue to insist that my expressed desire to stay to finish this book was quite secondary.)
Our remaining days here may be short. Halcón has agreed we should move to another refuge that the commando maintains. (I am not at liberty to say where.) Detection has become a concern: Zorro, while stationed at the gate, contended yesterday with a couple seeking recruits for God, and has previously turned away campesinos selling melons and manzanas de agua. Twice, on consecutive nights, a thief has tried to climb the fence, only to be run off.
For the balance of my stay, I will continue to be a slave to the routines that allay the boredom of the long, long wait and the discomfort of fractious eruptions to which people in close quarters fall prey. I rise each day at dawn, attend my Spanish class (“Cómo amaneció?” they say — not “How did you sleep?” but “How did you wake up?”), followed by a spate of cleaning and sweeping, a nap, a guided stroll about the grounds, and the Channel Seven news over dinner.
While doing so I often picture a scene at home: my brothers at the farm, Aunt Ruthilda and Uncle Ralph, watching the Channel Ten Eye to the Universe. “Good evening, it is day thirty-eight of the Costa Rica hostage crisis,” the announcer is gravely saying. “The ordeal continues for Saskatoon’s own Maggie Schneider …”
Afterwards, I ascend to my room to scribble – by candlelight, because no electric bulbs are allowed upstairs. But I write in spurts all day as well; these notes are being composed in the afternoon, downstairs where it is cooler and where Halcón is taking his siesta on the hammock next to me. He looks sad in sleep, his handsome brown face creased, his eyelids moving — occasionally his lips, too, as if forming words. I wonder what dreams come to him. He often shows up in mine, and I awake disturbed, my mind in disarray …
She hoped he would wake soon, because it was four o’clock when she usually took her turn outside. Glo preferred her outings in the mornings, exercising on the patio or strolling about the gardens with Halcón. He never allowed them outside together; he remained strict about that.
From across the room, she could hear Benito muttering to himself, probably about Halcón making secret signs. This was one of his oft-voiced complaints; every hand gesture by Halcón or nod of his head was a cause for suspicion. Maggie was not as convinced as his nephew Buho that his schizophrenic disorder had been induced by capitalist-lackey doctors in the state hospital.
Benito had finally begun to take to Maggie, who had extended him many kindnesses. He had been leery of her at first because of her practice of writing as she wandered about the house. The ever-patient Buho had explained she was less a prisoner than a friend, that she was compiling notes for a book about them, about the guerrillas of the Fifth of May. “It is the story of the struggle, Don Benito.”
He had the appearance of a bespectacled balding intellectual, and often communicated as one. Though delusional, he occasionally showed a startling lucidity, and some of his speculations — delivered in heavily accented English — were oddly incisive. (“Jacques Cardinal, he plays a sinister game, but he is the only outsider we can trust.”)
She was determined to befriend Benito, to seek interesting quotes, for he was one of the central characters of this drama, its inspiration. It bode well that earlier today he hinted, in a conspiratorial voice, he had important secret information for her book. It concerned her, though, that he was so antagonistic toward Halcón. “He still thinks he is running this show. Soon, I make my move. Don’t put that in your book.”
The bland-looking economist had assumed the right to command upon his arrival: issuing orders, demanding his own room, a desk, a secretary, the prerogatives of leadership. Halcón gave him his bedroom, and when Benito did not settle down he locked him in it for a day. Then Buho had a talk with his uncle, and prevailed upon him to maintain a lower profile. It was clear to all but Benito himself that the once charismatic leader of the Popular Vanguard had been demoted to the sidelines, an object of pity and even softly spoken humour.
Halcón was awake now, staring at the ceiling, frowning, as if deep in thought, perhaps about the logistics of their impending move. She had concurred with him that they should all migrate to his alternative hideout on the Caribbean coast; they would leave in the truck with Gordo, who would be returning in a few days.
She simply did not trust Jacques Cardinal enough to stay here longer, to risk his penchant for debacles. She hoped this former double agent would not turn out to be a double-dealer. She still had not told Halcón the truth about him – Glo had made her swear not to; it was a dilemma. Still, Halcón’s faith in the go-between seemed not entirely misplaced: Cardinal knew the location of the Darkside; if he had betrayed them, surely there would be signs of police activity.
Halcón finally rose and went to the bathroom — without once looking at her. She had the niggling sense he was purposefully avoiding her — he had recently become more cautious with her, had toned down the teasing and flirting. That kiss on the riverbank was never spoken of; it fluttered over them like a banner, obvious but as unmentionable as dirty underwear. She was baffled by her intense attraction to him, fearful of playing the role of love’s fool. Her long search for the meaning of that most passionate of emotions seemed to be dissolving in turmoil.
As a protective measure, Glo persistently drew them apart, monopolizing
Halcón, playing cards with him, diverting him with humorous comments and anecdotes. She had continued to counsel Maggie: screw your head on straight; pull back or you’re heading for the big fall. Maggie tried to tune into her friend’s voice of reason, to persuade herself the lure she felt was not true romantic love but a secondary emotion.
Keep a firm grip on that wandering heart, she repeated to herself. This surely was not love in any true form. But what else could it be? She remembered the many reports of those who had fallen afoul of the fixation known as Stockholm Syndrome – it created unnatural bonding; the emotions played tricks. But she knew herself; she was too strong to fall prey to such thinking.
“ ‘Be wary of your hidden desires.’ ” Glo was lying on an air mattress with her Complete Annual Horoscopes. “ ‘Giving in to temptation may cause serious regret.’ Who wrote this book, some total depressive? That should be your horoscope.” She was smoking again, panhandling cigarettes from Halcón.
“What is mine?”
“Aries. ‘Do something silly today. You may be pleasantly surprised at the effect it has on others.’ ”
“I’ll wait for inspiration to strike.”
Halcón was pacing about the room, still deep in thought. Maggie was entitled to her yard time, a right imbedded in custom. She swung from her hammock and tinkled the copper chimes by the window. Halcón returned to this world, unlocked the door, and ushered her out.
During these daily sojourns, Maggie had taken to tending the flowering shrubs and picking blooms for the house. Halcón still wore a far-away expression as he watched her snipping at the ginger and jasmine and anthurium. “I have seen heliconia by the river,” he said. “Would that add to the display?”
She had not visited the river since the ignominious kiss. Glo had made a few excursions, though, and told her that its flow had abated. She followed him down the rock steps, refusing the hand he offered, managing the steep parts by herself. As she clambered toward the waterfall, she was reminded of how beautiful it was here. (“You add to it,” he had said.)
The Laughing Falcon Page 28
