“What’s happening?” Sam asked. Was this her release? It was about time.
“Transfer to Guayaquil.” Montero’s gaze met Sam’s briefly, and then jerked back to the floor. “Stand up. Put your hands behind the back.”
Guayaquil? That couldn’t be good. How would anyone locate her in Guayaquil? No—she was supposed to be rescued today. Where the hell was Sandman’s team? “I didn’t kill anyone. Eduardo Duarte killed Dr. Kazaki. You’ve got to talk to him! Eduardo Duarte!”
Montero glanced at Schwartz, a quizzical expression on her face. He said something to her in Spanish. It must have been along the lines of ignore her, because they both did after that. Schwartz clamped his hand around her bicep.
“Please,” she begged. “Let me call someone; surely I have the right to do that.”
Schwartz said something in Spanish. “No time,” Montero translated.
Schwartz jerked Sam’s hands behind her back. This couldn’t really be happening, could it? Get real, Westin. How many times had she had this stupid debate with herself in the last week? Of course it was happening. Dan had been killed, she had been arrested for his murder, and now she was being shipped off to some antiquated Third World prison, where she’d die before anyone found her. She was going to spend the rest of her short life in Ecuador.
Bad things happened to good people every day, and now they were happening to her.
As Montero bound her hands together behind her back with a plastic zip-tie, Sam noticed the blue cover of an American passport peeking out of Schwartz’s front pocket. Hers? After slinging the straps of the computer case and duffel bag over his shoulder, he grabbed her arm and towed her out of her cell and down the hallway. They exited through a metal side door into a small dusty parking lot.
She was trembling as Schwartz shoved her toward the police vehicles parked back there. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that it drowned out the city noises around them. Goose bumps erupted on her arms even as she felt a trickle of sweat slide down her backbone.
What would happen in Guayaquil? Would there be a trial? A new, even more horrible idea crossed her mind—would there be an execution? Did Ecuador have the death penalty for murder? Two women carrying grocery bags stopped at the entrance to the alley to watch. One pointed a manicured fingernail at Sam.
“I’m innocent!” she yelled. “It was Eduardo Duarte!”
Schwartz shoved her duffel and computer case into the backseat of a small SUV with a light bar on the roof and an official-looking insignia on its flanks. He tucked her passport into the front pocket of her bag, and then shoved her in beside them. After climbing into the driver’s seat, he pulled out of the parking lot. There was no barrier between her and Schwartz, as there would be in an American police cruiser. The back doors had regular latches. Could she bang her forehead into the back of his head and knock him out? Hardly. There was a padded headrest between his head and hers, and it wasn’t as if she could get a running start.
Could she unlatch a door and roll out? The SUV picked up speed, making that plan seem like a bad one—with her hands bound, she had little control. If she didn’t get run over by a following car, she’d likely land on her head, break her neck, and end up a quadriplegic lying at the side of the road.
As they headed out of Puerto Ayora, the scenery changed from crowded town to scrub brush. A few bike riders dotted the sides of the paved road. A loaded airport shuttle passed them going toward town. A few more fingers pointed in her direction from the open windows. Nausea rose, burning her throat, and she swallowed frequently. She was going to throw up on herself and then have to ride on a plane soaked in her own vomit and then—Oh God, was she really going to prison?
Schwartz abruptly took a ninety-degree right turn onto a gravel side road. Sam bounced hard as the wheels dropped off the pavement, and then she nearly fell over sideways in the backseat. What the hell? She braced her feet far apart on the floor. “Where are you going?”
His cool blue eyes glanced at her in the rearview mirror, but Schwartz clenched his jaw and said nothing, and then turned his focus back to the rough gravel road ahead.
Fear seized her in its jaws. This will not happen, Eduardo had said. Damn him, it was happening. Schwartz had no intention of delivering her to Guayaquil. On the horizon, she spotted the blue of the Pacific to the southeast. Shit, he was going to execute her and dump her body in the ocean. She’d never see her log cabin again. She’d never hold Simon and feel his soothing purr, she’d never get the chance to form a real bond with her father; she’d never again tell Chase she loved him. Oh please, oh please, oh please, God—I was just doing my job; I was trying to save the animals, I was trying to do good—if you’re really there, if you’re listening—
Schwartz slowed the SUV to a crawl as the road joined another in a T intersection near the rocky shore. Schwartz turned left onto the coastal road. Ahead Sam saw what looked like a rough airstrip, but there were no planes in sight. A windsock floated listlessly on the breeze. There were no planes, cars, or people in sight. The airstrip wasn’t big enough for a plane to Guayaquil. It looked like a great lonely place for a murder. To Sam’s right, on the rocky beach, was a small inflatable dinghy, resting next to a crude wooden sign leaning against a boulder: fast boat to pto villamil. $120. Out from the shore, a long low speedboat rested at anchor. Sam stared. It was the same go-fast boat J.J. hired to take them to Wolf.
There was nobody in sight at the sign to take the money, unless a couple of seagulls had been drafted for that duty. The birds were busy squabbling over fish guts left out on a wooden plank balanced on top of another rock. The remains of another excellent fish, no doubt. Maybe Guerrero and Ayala were off selling their catch somewhere nearby.
That boat might be her only hope. Sam twisted in her seat until her fingers touched the passport extruding from the pocket of her bag. She slid it out and, on the second try, managed to slide it into the back pocket of her pants.
The coast road was full of potholes. Swerving around the worst, Schwartz slowly drove past the inflatable. She twisted toward the door latch. She pulled up her feet and abruptly shot them out with all her might, hitting the back of Schwartz’s seat. The seat collapsed. Schwartz’s head hit the windshield with an audible crack. She pulled the door latch and then flung her shoulder against the door, rolling out of the slowing vehicle. She hit the ground hard, scraping her right arm from shoulder to elbow. Her hip banged into the rough black lava. A loud screeching crunch erupted ahead of her. She focused on wriggling to her feet and then she ran toward the water.
She glanced back over her shoulder. The SUV had come to rest with a wheel halfway up one large rock and the front smashed into another. There was no movement except for steam curling up from the radiator. Had she killed Schwartz?
Whether he was dead or unconscious, it seemed like a bad idea to hang out in plain sight. Crap. If she took the inflatable, it would be obvious where she had gone. And there was no way she could untie it or paddle with her hands behind her back. Shit, shit, shit. This always worked in the movies. She stumbled a couple more steps toward the signboard and the boulders. Could she hide behind them?
The bickering gulls launched themselves into the air as she neared, knocking the fish cleaning board askew. One of the birds dropped the large fish head it was trying to lift. The head bounced the cleaning board off the rock, tossing a metal object onto the ground. A shower of fish scales dripped down onto gleaming metal. Sam blinked. A knife. Covered in blood and guts and fish scales, but a knife! The tip was broken off but the remaining blade looked sharp enough, serrated on one side and smooth on the other.
She threw herself down onto her knees and awkwardly twisted around to grab it, nearly losing her balance backward and slicing her thumb in the process. After she had the knife in hand, she rolled into the cover of the boulders to shield herself from Schwartz’s sight. Clearly she was not superspy or master criminal material; it seemed to take forever to maneuver the knife into proper position
and saw through the plastic zip-tie.
Finally free, she wiggled her fingers for a second—she was bleeding from multiple cuts—and then, afraid to stand up, she stuffed the plastic tie into her pocket so as not to leave evidence behind, tossed the knife close to the fish head, and slithered on her belly into the water.
Damn, it was cold. She took a deep breath and dove as far as she could, pulling herself forward with strong breaststroke motions. Her feet were next to useless in her sandals, but she kicked as hard as she could. Her eyes burned in the salt water. Her surroundings were one big blur, but she kept going until the blur above seemed more white than blue, her lungs were exploding, and she was seconds away from sucking down a mouthful of water. Flipping over onto her back, she floated upward, mouth first so she could grab a breath of air without exposing too much flesh to Schwartz waiting on shore with a gun.
She recognized the white plane of fiberglass a second before she cracked her forehead against it. Shit again. Rebounding, she slid up the boat’s flank and surfaced on the far side, gulping a welcome lungful of oxygen-laden air. If there was any good thing she’d gained from this trip, it was a new appreciation for the breathable atmosphere on the planet.
Trying not to gasp too loudly, she peeked around the stern of the boat. She saw no one on the beach. She worked her way back to the side of the boat, stretched her hands up over the edge and grasped a metal cleat, then heaved with all her might. She failed on the first try, swung back under the boat. Cursing silently, she let go, then took a deep breath, kicked as hard as she could on her second attempt, and finally managed to get her arms over the side. She didn’t risk any time looking at the shore, but flipped herself down inside the cockpit.
Lifting up the seat cover on the stern storage bin, she slithered inside, for once glad to be a small woman. She arranged her feet on either side of the anchor there, her head on the biggest coil of rope, and tried to ignore the section of chain and rough rope in between that dug into her backside and shoulders. Harder to ignore was the strong smell of fish and the heavy vapors from the diesel fuel.
The only up side of her hiding spot was that it was relatively warm. She was out of the breeze and on top of the motor, which, judging from the rising warmth, had been running not long ago.
Meet u @ Villamil Airport. Was Sandman really waiting there? Was she running from or to certain death? Villamil seemed like the lesser evil at this point. In Guayaquil, there could be nothing but more police and another jail cell waiting for her. On the island of Isabela, she might be able to hide out or hitch a ride with a sympathetic cruiser passing through. Things couldn’t get much worse, could they? She had attacked—and maybe killed—a police officer. And probably her escape would not endear her to Ecuadorian authorities, either. Whatever might be coming next, she was committed to Puerto Villamil now.
It seemed to be standard operating procedure here to make problems go away, so she hoped that Jonathan Sanders planned to help her disappear from these islands and escape back to the States.
The possibility that Sandman was Santos was a little more worrisome. But maybe the fishermen would be glad to assist her imminent departure, too. We never killed anyone, Santos had told her. Now those words seemed slightly, perhaps insanely, reassuring.
The rope dug into her backbone. As she squirmed to shift the irritating line down beneath her buttocks, there was a thump from the side of the boat. Muffled voices in Spanish; one with an American accent. Various thuds all around, and then the squeak of the boat cushions overhead.
The engine rumbled to life beneath and behind her, drowning out all other sounds with a head-pounding decibel level, and then they were off. The fumes from the diesel combined with the surging motion as they passed over waves, and she fought to control the bile that rose in her throat. She couldn’t throw up in here. Her nose was less than two inches away from the lid; there was no way she could even roll over.
No. She. Would. Not. Throw. Up. She could outlast the nausea. How long could it take for this fast boat to reach Puerto Villamil? An hour? Ninety minutes? She slid a hand across her stomach, pinched the knob on her watch to light up the dial, and looked down her side to note the time. The tiny light also illuminated the blood drying on her hands and wrists. That sight made her knife slashes start hurting again, but at least the pain took the edge off her roiling stomach.
Closing her eyes, she tried to think about sleep, but taking a nap wasn’t an option with her head periodically bouncing off the rope coil and the chain and anchor clanking between her legs. Please let us actually be going to Villamil, she prayed. Not headed out to sea to land another excellent mackerel.
That thought reminded her of J.J. Had the woman even tried to get her out of jail? Well, she obviously hadn’t tried fast enough or hard enough. Neither had Eduardo. Adam Steele hadn’t been involved in this particular caper, so she really shouldn’t be blaming him, but he hadn’t come to her rescue, either. Tad Wyatt and the folks at Key were the ones who should have pulled every damn string they could unravel to get her back to the States.
By the time the boat stopped, she had worked herself into a fine fury at nearly everyone she knew, including Chase. How could he have asked her to give up her life in Bellingham to assume his in Salt Lake? Why did she have to give up her home? Why did everything have to be his way? And if he was dead, she was even more upset at him for making her love him and then leaving her alone.
She checked her watch—seventy-five minutes had passed. After the noises of disembarking were gone, she made herself lie still for another half hour, trying not to inhale the diesel fumes too deeply. All she could hear was lapping water and the occasional squeak of a boat cushion or a foam bumper. Just as she was reaching for the lid, she felt the boat tilt and a weight come on board. Shit. She waited another five minutes, but sensed no more movement. Maybe someone had stepped on, and then off?
She pushed gently on the compartment cover. It didn’t budge. She put both hands up and pushed. It didn’t move. Oh sweet Jesus, had they locked her in? No! She was not going to spend another minute crammed inside this bin! There wasn’t enough room to get her feet beneath the lid, so she bent her legs and placed her feet as flat on the floor as she could for leverage, and then she placed both hands flat on the lid. Taking a deep breath, she contracted her abdominal muscles and shoved up with all her strength. The lid moved up an inch, the weight slid off with a loud thunk, and then the lid abruptly banged open.
Someone was sleeping on top of her hiding place? She shoved herself to her feet, swaying slightly on cramped leg muscles, her heart hammering, her hands thrust out to defend herself.
A female sea lion stared at her from the floor of the boat, snorted, and then backed up with a bounce of her flippers. Sam made a strangled snorting sound herself, then leaned over and grasped the edge of the compartment, weak with relief.
The go-fast boat was anchored to a buoy in a harbor, surrounded by other boats. Judging from the red of the western horizon, the setting sun would be visible to the west of Isabela, but the harbor, in the shadow of the closest volcano, was dark. The village at the water’s edge had to be Villamil.
The sea lion sniffed loudly and moved a front flipper, her claws making a scratching sound on the boat floor.
“Be scared. Be very scared,” she murmured to the crouching sea lion. “I am a dangerous escaped criminal.”
She lowered the lid of her compartment, repositioned the seat cushions, and sat for a moment, letting the blood flow back into her legs. The sea lion stretched her neck, twitched her whiskers forward, and sniffed Sam, her snout wrinkling delicately.
“I’ve been in jail,” she said by way of excuse. “And rolling around in fish guts on the beach, and then in a locker used for storing fish. You wouldn’t smell like a rose, either.”
The sea lion shuffled forward, looking as if she might lay her big brown-furred head in Sam’s lap. Clearly the animal lusted after the cushioned bench Sam sat on.
She stud
ied the town on the horizon. More rustic and much smaller than Puerto Ayora, although the lights of a few bars fronted the harbor. The owners had taken the dinghy to shore. There was no remedy except to swim.
“Wish me luck,” she said to the sea lion. And then she slipped overboard and swam toward the shadows under the long dock.
The water seemed even colder in this harbor, but maybe that was because it was dark now. She didn’t attempt to swim underwater, but paddled awkwardly at the surface. Why she hadn’t removed her shoes and hung them around her neck? She wasn’t thinking clearly. But then, what escaped criminal was thinking clearly?
Something splashed nearby. She tried not to think about how sharks frequented harbors at night, searching for food scraps thrown from boats. Then, of course, she couldn’t think of anything else. Every swish of water was a predator only inches away. She expected to feel slashing teeth at any second. When her knees and hands collided with the sand bank beneath her, she was supremely grateful.
Pulling herself out of the water, she sat shivering for a moment under the dock. Faint music played in the distance. Two people passed by overhead, chatting. Then nothing. Puerto Villamil was a quiet town. That would change, if the Chinese invested in the huge resort the residents wanted.
She strolled through the dark streets, trying not to squish. The airport would be on the outskirts of town, but which direction? She guessed north because it would be the biggest flat area, and headed that way.
She passed a group of storefronts, their lights out and doors locked. The first window held fishing gear. The second, T-shirts and ball caps. The half-torso mannequin wore both, as well as a pair of familiar-looking sunglasses, and all items bore a distinctive logo—PCB. The word SALE! was scrawled across the window in white paint. She almost laughed. Maybe all the sunglasses didn’t indicate anything more than the latest deal.
Undercurrents Page 29
