by Ken Douglas
“ Sheeit,” Dependable Ted said under his breath, but Maria heard.
“ Is anybody hurt?” Broxton asked.
“ Don’t think so,” Ted said.
“ I’m okay,” Maria said, looking out of the car. Seconds ago she’d been on a highway, with cars, houses, stores and people. Now she was surrounded by green-leaves, grass, weeds, bushes and trees. She was in an ancient world, a primitive place, and something deep in her heart told her that man wasn’t welcome.
“ That car hit us on purpose,” Ted said, turning toward them. His smile was gone and there was a glazed look in his dark brown eyes.
“ Looked like it,” Broxton said, and even as he said it the glaze faded from Dependable Ted’s eyes and as they cleared Maria saw anger, bubbling and boiling, raging and ready to burst forth.
“ It was an accident,” Maria said.
“ Wasn’t,” Ted said, “and somebody is going to pay.”
Broxton put his hand to the latch, pulled it and pushed against the door. It creaked and groaned, but it opened. He turned back toward Ted and leaned forward till his face was inches away. “My name’s Broxton. Call the American Embassy tomorrow. Tell them I owe you a new car and cab fare. It’ll be taken care of.” There was something about the way he said it. Low and slow, every syllable clear, even though it was barely a whisper, that told both Ted and Maria that what he said was truth.
“ Yes, sir.” Ted held his hand out. Broxton shook it.
“ Then forget you ever saw me.”
“ Yes, sir.” Ted released Broxton’s hand.
“ No questions?” Broxton asked.
“ You best get going, ’cause I never saw you,” the driver said. Then he added, “go straight into the green till you get to the river, ain’t far, then turn right and follow it back to the road. Bridge goes under, you come out on the opposite side. It’s easy. I used to do it all the time when I was a boy.”
“ Thanks,” Broxton said, and he grabbed both bags, took her by the hand and slipped out of the car, pulling her out after himself. She offered no resistance. He led her around a large teak tree and pulled her further into the tall grass and dense growth. He heard the running water and in seconds he was confronted with a small river that wound from the mountains above down to the sea. Still holding her hand he started to step down the bank.
“ Wait,” she said.
Broxton stopped.
“ Why are we running?”
“ I don’t know,” Broxton said. “Somebody ran us off the road.”
“ It was an accident,” she said again.
“ No, someone tried to kill us.” Again he was whispering and again she heard truth.
“ You can’t know that.” She was panting and she felt sweat rolling down her back. She wiped an insect off of her face with her free hand and met his eyes.
“ I’m an analyst. I’m paid to think and figure the odds, and right now my training tells me that if we don’t move we will wind up dead.” He was talking fast now, trying to convince her.
“ What if you’re wrong?” she said.
“ What if I’m not?” he said.
“ They went in there,” she heard a voice say, gravelly and menacing, not friendly.
“ You’re not,” she said, deciding. “Let’s go.” She felt him tighten his grip. Then he turned back toward the river and started down the bank. The ground was wet, muddy and it smelled. People up in the mountains had been using the river as a dump for too long. The water that should have been fresh and sweet was polluted with litter: plastic bottles, Styrofoam cups, coke cans and other odd bits of trash. The river was taking it all toward the sea.
At the bottom he sloshed through the river, still pulling her along behind. The water was only inches deep, but the mud was tugging at her shoes, threatening to pull them off. The growth was dense and oppressive and she was thankful that he was breaking trail for her. Chills ran up her spine, sliding under the sweat that was running down her back. She was as frightened now as she’d been on the plane. She squeezed his hand tighter as he led her toward the road and safety.
“ Shit, I think they’re headed back toward the road,” the gravel voice from behind said, and Broxton answered her squeeze by gripping her hand even tighter as he picked up his pace through the shallow river, pushing low overhanging branches aside with his other hand.
“ Bridge up ahead,” Broxton said. “We have to go under.”
But when she looked ahead she didn’t see a bridge at all, just the highway above the trees and a place where the river vanished into the undergrowth beneath it and he was pulling her steadily toward it.
“ No,” she said, jerking on his hand and forcing him to stop. “Let’s climb up this side.”
“ That’s what they’ll expect,” Broxton said. “They might even have somebody up there waiting.”
“ Who?” she asked.
“ Don’t know and we don’t have time to discuss it,” he said, then he released her hand and turned toward the spot where the river disappeared under the road. “I hope there’s no snakes under there” he said. “I hate snakes.”
She shivered. “Me too,” she whispered, as he slung the bags over his neck and dropped to a crouch, making his way toward the dense growth.
“ Going to have to crawl.” He dropped his hands and knees into the water. She watched as he forced himself through the wet and slimy foliage that guarded the area under the bridge, and then she couldn’t see him anymore and she was alone. She heard the slight murmuring of people overhead and the sound of a siren off in the distance, but there were no traffic sounds on the highway, no cars whizzing by above. Traffic was stopped. She didn’t want to go in there. Maybe she could climb up on this side. There were people there, she’d be safe.
“ Hurry up.” It was the gravel voice behind her. “Not much farther,” it said, and it made her mind up. She dropped to a crawl and scooted through the muck and slime, pushing as much of it away from her face as she could. Her heart was racing, sweat chilled her skin and she felt insects crawling on the back of her neck. She wanted to scream each time her fingers curled into the muck, but she fought it back and pushed forward.
She was closed in by the dark, like a letter in an envelope and she was waiting for somebody to seal her in. Then she felt something else under her hands. The mud and muck had a bottom to it and it was solid. A chill rippled through her as she pulled a hand out of the river. She reached out to her left and shivered when she struck something solid. A wall. She thrust her hand above her head and whimpered when it touched the concrete top.
She was in a drain pipe.
Every ounce and fiber of herself screamed, Go back, but she bit into her lower lip, closed her eyes and plunged on ahead. Then she felt sunlight on her eyelids, and when she opened them she saw Broxton. She pushed herself out of the pipe as a great wave of relief flooded through her.
But as quickly as it came, it went, when she saw she had nothing to be relieved about. They’d gone only halfway. They were under the highway, between the lanes. There was another drain pipe on the other side. She was going to have to do it all again. She didn’t know if she could.
He leaned toward her and put his lips to her ear. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered. “You’re doing fine.” His whisper calmed and soothed her. She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath, trying to get control of herself. “That’s the way,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”
She shivered, but not as much as before. She opened her eyes and looked around. She was in a place where trolls lived. Under the bridge, under the feet of people and the wheels of cars. A mythical, fairytale, dangerous kind of place. There were things here she didn’t want to know about. Creepy crawlies and slithering slimies, all chucky jammed full of poison. She wanted out and the only way was to slide through that other drain pipe.
He took her hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze, then he turned away and went back down on all fours. She followed and
again she was in the dark and again she felt the chili whillies shoot through her, but this time she wasn’t alone, because she grabbed onto one of Broxton’s feet as he crawled ahead and not God or the devil himself could have made her let go.
Then they were through it and on the other side. She let go of his foot and he took her hand again and led her up the embankment, onto the far side of the highway. Then she saw why she’d heard no traffic sounds. The car that hit them had itself been rear ended and the result was an accident on the bridge, causing traffic to be backed up in both directions. People were out of their cars, some were helping the victims on the bridge, others were in the park assisting the taxi driver and still others were watching, talking, laughing, having a good time, enjoying the excuse to take a few minutes off toward the end of the day. Most of the drivers were apparently viewing the accident more as entertainment than aggravation.
The BMW was sitting four cars back from the bridge. It was unoccupied.
“ Come on,” Broxton said, leading Maria over to the car. He peeked in the open window. “Keys are in it. Let’s go.”
“ You’re not going to take the car?”
He turned and faced her, smiled, and without a word, opened the door and tossed the bags onto the back seat.
“ But that’s stealing.”
“ Better hurry, before they come back,” he said, getting in. She hurried around to the passenger side. Broxton had the engine started before she had the door closed.
Chapter Six
Broxton threw the car in reverse and backed up till he tapped the car behind, then he shifted into drive, cranking the wheel all the way to the right, moving forward till he bumped the car in front. The accident on the bridge had traffic backed up for miles and the cars were packed in tight. There was only inches between bumpers.
The driver behind saw what he was trying to do and backed up a few inches, giving him that much more room to maneuver. Broxton stuck a hand out the window and flashed him the peace sign and the driver responded with a short honk.
“ Friendly people,” he said.
“ Seems so,” she answered. He liked the sound of her voice. It had a smile in it despite everything she’d been through.
“ Stop them,” a voice rang out.
“ You better hurry,” she said and Broxton backed up till he tapped the bumper again, cranked the wheel and moved forward, but he still didn’t have enough room to make the turn and get out of the squeeze.
“ Two of them and they’re running,” Maria said. Broxton didn’t see them but he heard the urgency in her voice and he jammed the BMW back into reverse, this time tapping the car harder then he’d done the last two times and this time the honk wasn’t as short and didn’t sound as friendly.
“ They’re getting closer,” she said, as he again cranked the wheel and bumped the car in front, this time pushing it a few inches forward before throwing it back into reverse and hitting the car in the rear. Hard. The driver behind responded with a loud, steady honk, not friendly at all anymore.
“ They’ve got guns,” she said and Broxton cranked the wheel and stepped on the gas. He hit the front car’s bumper with a hard glancing blow, but he was able to squeeze out and he turned onto the right shoulder.
“ They’re getting ready to shoot,” she said. Broxton put his foot to the floor and the BMW responded like the thoroughbred that it was, tires spinning, sending dirt and grass flying from behind as they flew along the stalled cars going in the opposite direction.
“ Cross there,” she said, and Broxton followed her pointed finger, spinning the wheel to the left. They charged across the wide center strip. Then they had the two lanes all to themselves as they sped toward the city and away from the danger behind.
“ Lookout!” she screamed. Broxton stomped on the brakes and swerved to avoid an old four wheel drive Toyota Land Cruiser that turned onto the highway going the wrong direction. They started to slide toward the car and all Broxton could see was the flashing blue light on top of the Toyota.
The policeman’s reaction was faster than his and the Land Cruiser swerved and jerked out of the way as Broxton clung to the wheel. They slid sideways past the police cruiser and Maria screamed, jerking Broxton’s gaze off of the whites of the policeman’s eyes and back onto the road. He pulled himself back together and pulled the wheel into the direction of the slide as he pulled his foot off the brakes, attempting to bring the car back under control.
But the car resisted and Broxton panicked and jammed his foot back on the brakes, sending the car into a three hundred and sixty degree spin. The outside circled by and he saw lightning glimpses of houses, highway and hills as Maria’s scream mingled with the sound of the squealing tires.
Most cars would have rolled, but the stable BMW came to a jerky stop in the center of the road and Broxton quickly shifted into neutral.
“ Son of a bitch, you sure know how to scare the shit out of someone,” Maria said, as Broxton leaned back and sighed.
“ I lost it for a second,” he said, ashamed. Then he added, “It’s been a few years since I’ve done any driving on the left.”
“ But we made it,” she said.
He turned to look at her and laughed.
“ What’s so funny?” she asked.
“ You should see yourself.” Her blouse and slacks were torn and covered with the drying mud and muck from the river. The stuff was already turning hard on her skin. Her shoes looked like she’d been walking through a cow pasture. She raised a hand to her face, then her hair, and she laughed, too.
“ We’re a mess,” she said.
The police car, small in the distance, turned around, blue light still flashing.
Broxton glanced into the rearview mirror. “He’s coming back.”
Maria turned around. “But the accident is back there.”
“ I thing it’s time to make ourselves scarce.”
“ Why? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Broxton put the car back into gear. “I don’t think they know that,” he said. Then he shoved in the clutch and for a few seconds he was a kid again, reliving his high school nights on Cherry Avenue, drag racing all comers, in his souped up ’56 Chevy Nomad, on the mile stretch of road that lay straight between the two cemeteries. The never ending everybody cemetery on the right and the perfectly manicured Catholic cemetery on the left.
He felt Maria next to him as she was pushed back into the seat, but he kept his eyes on the road and reveled in the sound of the squealing tires. Then the tires dug into the pavement. Broxton popped the clutch and shoved it into second, grinning as the tires chirped, then he was in third and sneaking a glance in the rearview. The police cruiser was turning into a speck in the distance.
“ Another one,” she said, her voice calm, like a copilot’s, but tense like the plane was going down.
“ I see it,” he said. The second cruiser was coming head on, driving on the wrong side of the street as the two lanes leaving Port of Spain were backed up because of the accident.
“ What are you going to do?” she said, voice still calm, tense.
“ See who’s chicken,” he said, shifting into fourth. He stole a look at the speedometer and he wondered how fast two hundred kilometers an hour was. He didn’t have time to do the math, but he knew he was flying. And he was still acting the teenager on Cherry Avenue. Playing chicken with a fast car was no new game to him, but he was gambling that it was to the driver of the blue Land Cruiser that was looming larger in his windscreen with each heartbeat.
“ He’s not going to turn,” Maria said, still calm, but he heard the coffin-like stiffness in her voice as he tightened his hands on the wheel. Any sane man would pull aside, pull over, and pull out his wallet and hope that his California driver’s license would identify him as enough of a tourist to be let off with a stern warning, but the memory of the men back at the bridge was still sending shivers up his spine that turned into sparks at the base of his neck.
“ Oh my
God. This is it,” she said. The edge was gone from her voice and he admired her for not screaming and not panicking. Then, at the last possible instant, he pulled the wheel a few inches to the right and the police car flew by, close enough to touch.
“ Do you ever know how to get a girl’s blood pumping,” she said.
He saw a turn-off ahead and he stomped on the brakes, sending the car into a slide, laying rubber all over the road as he flew through a long circular exit behind a soccer stadium. He worked the gears through the turn and he was down to second as they shot out of the exit and into the evening traffic. After a few blocks he turned onto a side road, making several turns until he was confused and lost. Finally he pulled up to the curb and parked in front of a small white house covered with frilly gingerbread lattice work.
“ We’re here,” he said.
“ Where?” she said.
“ I don’t know,” he said, opening his door and stepping out of the car.
“ What are you doing? Where are you going?” she asked.
“ This looks like a nice house.” He leaned back into the car. “And I’ll bet nice folks live here. I’m going to ask them for directions to the Hilton.”
She started to say something, but he turned away from her and started up a flower-lined walkway toward a shaded front porch. A black woman of indeterminate age was swaying in a porch swing, sipping something tall that looked cold, and she was eyeing Broxton coming up her walk like a hen eyeing the fox.
“ Evening, ma’am,” Broxton said, slipping on his father’s Irish smile and his mother’s southern accent.
“ Good night, son,” she said and Broxton stopped, frowned and turned back to the car. “Where you going, boy?”
Broxton turned back toward her, confused.
