The small diner was packed with the kind of people that came out after dark and stayed out until daylight turned them into ash. At the counter sat a man at least six feet tall, wearing a blue dress, dangling a man’s size-12 pump while he checked his makeup in a compact. A bodybuilder type in minimal clothing was engaged in quiet conversation with a handsome elderly Asian woman in a striking fur coat. On closer inspection, the handsome elderly Asian woman was a handsome elderly Asian man. To round things out, a trio of thrill seekers in full disco gear, two coeds and a slight young man, were drunkenly stabbing at a plate of French fries. Like the clientele, the decor was over the top, along with the music. “I Will Survive” drifted from a loudspeaker at a decent volume.
“I take it you don’t have children, Gus,” Colleen said, tapping ash from a Virginia Slim into the ashtray. She sipped coffee she didn’t really want but needed to stay awake. Too late to sleep; too early to rise. She wore her red tracksuit and white Pony Topstars. Her traveling outfit.
“But what you’re proposing is just plain dangerous,” Gus said. “Breaking into Die Kerk and uncovering a plan to transport hundreds of people to Ecuador for a possible suicide pact might have been beautiful detective work but it’s illegal—not to mention physically risky to go down there yourself. Die Kerk can get nasty.”
She knew about Die Kerk’s penchant for revenge. But it angered her more than it frightened her. Pam was the reason.
“I’ve spoken to a Congressman Waters,” Gus said. “He’s heading up an investigation into Die Kerk’s activities in South America. A number of his constituents are down there.”
“Do you know where exactly?”
“Somewhere near Baños.”
That’s what she knew.
“Their Social Security checks are being sent to Die Kerk and they’re pretty much being held, as far as their relatives are concerned. Most have no passports. There’s no way they can leave easily. Adem Lea is also facing labor law violations here. People are pushing for action. I spoke to Representative Waters about your situation. He wants to meet. With what you’ve uncovered about Tennant Shipping, the Fed’s case against Die Kerk is strengthened. Waters is planning on going down there soon, along with several family members and legal counsel. We can get you to join him. Safety in numbers.”
“All of which takes time,” Colleen said. “Time I don’t have. That Pamela doesn’t have.”
Gus put his big hands up in appeasement. “A little patience. All I’m asking.”
“How much patience?”
Gus picked up his tea, swirled, took a sip. “Within the month.”
She shook her head. “A month is an eternity where a suicide cult is concerned.”
She told him about the term vroulike offer.
He set his cup down. “I admit, it’s not good.” Gus rubbed his face, blinked behind his tinted lenses.
“I can’t wait.” She reached down, got her bag, set it on her lap, pulled out two bulky manila envelopes. One was marked Sergeant Matt Dwight, the other, Inspector Owens. “Here’s everything I’ve got on the two cases SFPD are handling. One concerns the rumor about the mayor being shot, the other is my friend Lucky, beaten to death by the bikers connected to the rumor. If you don’t hear from me within a week, these go to the respective parties.”
Gus reached across the table, took the envelopes. “And where are you going to be exactly? As if I didn’t know.”
“Ecuador,” she said, smashing her cigarette out. “Baños. Near the volcano. It shouldn’t be impossible to find Verligting.” She checked her watch. “I booked a flight to Quito. Leaves SFO in a few hours.”
“You’re not going alone, I hope.”
She nodded.
Gus sighed, adjusted his sunglasses. “What about your friend Boom? Can’t he go with you?”
“It’s too much to ask. He’s in the middle of finals. He’s taken a couple of chances helping me already.” Illegal ones. “And I’ll move faster alone. I’ll keep you posted. If anything should happen … well, you know who to contact: Dwight, Owens, the Feds, Congressman Waters.”
“I really wish you’d give this some more thought.”
“I have.”
“I know.” Gus nodded, looked at his watch, gathered up the envelopes. “I know you have.”
She gave a single nod. “Pamela’s my daughter.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
NEAR BAÑOS, ECUADOR
A DAY AND A HALF LATER
The bus groaned to a halt on the dark mountain road a mile above sea level. A grouping of huts and buildings clung to the edges of the narrow highway, all shut save for an empty cantina. The rain forest loomed on one side, the volcano on the other. A hint of pink glowed from its crest.
The bus door hissed as it popped open.
“Last stop,” the driver said in Spanish. He was a heavy-faced mestizo, bent over a steering wheel that seemed a yard in diameter. It vibrated along with the diesel engine, in chorus with the fringe balls hanging from the windshield. On the radio, Latin pop music played, a tune laden with syrupy strings.
“We’re stopping here?” Colleen asked. She was the only remaining passenger. “We’re still at least five kilometers from Baños.”
She’d learned Spanish growing up in West Denver.
“Tungurahua,” he said, nodding up the mountain. The throat of fire.
With the door open they could smell a hint of sulfur, the volcano more active of late. What did that mean for Die Kerk’s schedule?
Colleen stood, gathered her light pack from the overhead rack. She hoped she wasn’t too late.
“The militaires are evacuating the town,” the driver said. “They won’t let you in.”
Evacuating over five thousand people was no small feat. “I’m actually looking for a place called Verligting. A settlement. Know where it might be?”
He squinted at her. “You’re not one of them, are you?” Meaning a Die Kerker.
“My daughter is,” she said. “I came down here to find her.”
His scowl turned to a grimace of concern. “Near the town of Mera, I’m told. Beyond Baños. Twenty-five kilometers? Who knows exactly. Get too close and you’re likely to be shot at.”
She nodded at the cantina. “Let me buy you a meal. Or a beer. And you can tell me what else you’ve heard.”
“No gracias. I’ve got to get back to Ambato. And if you’ve got any sense, you’ll stay away from volcanos and the people who worship them.”
She thanked him, got off the bus, in jeans, hiking boots, layers of outdoor wear, with her small pack, and watched the bus make a laborious U-turn, then lumber off down the mountain road.
She was left with the sounds of the Andes, the wind, an owl hooting.
Was Pamela listening to this? Smelling the same sulfur? How far away was she?
Minutes later, Colleen had a warm sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper to go. The aroma of pork and onions made her stomach growl.
“The basilica in Baños is a meeting point,” the woman in the cantina said. “If you can get past the soldiers.”
“Thank you,” Colleen said, and headed up the mountain road in the dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was past midnight by the time Colleen reached Baños. The faint glow of the volcano pulsed on the peak of Tungurahua. The narrow road into town was dusted with a fine layer of ash, tire track imprints here and there. Despite the altitude and cold night air, five kilometers of dark mountain road had filmed her with perspiration. Worrying over Pamela kept her awake.
The radiant mountaintop was contrasted by the darkened mountain town, buildings shut, without power.
Shouts echoed off in the distance.
At the modest bus station on the edge of town, a dirt lot with a smattering of single-story structures, military vehicles and soldiers were posted.
An adolescent soldier stopped Colleen. He had sharp features. A rifle was slung over his shoulder.
“Turn around, Señora. The town
is under evacuation orders.”
“I’m looking for my daughter,” she said.
He called over a sergeant with a peaked cap and tunic neatly tucked in. He had a perfectly trimmed mustache.
“Your daughter is in Baños?”
Lying to South American soldiers didn’t seem like a good idea.
“I believe she’s in Verligting,” Colleen said.
“You’re not a volcanario, are you?”
“My daughter is. I’m hoping to go to the church, see if she might have checked in.” In Colleen’s wishful mind, Pamela might have come to her senses, decided to leave Die Kerk. “Before I head to the settlement. It’s near Mera, I’m told.”
“Sorry. No can do.”
“Can’t I just pass through?”
He shook his head. “Orders. If she’s at that settlement, then you’re too late anyway.”
That’s what she was worried about. She headed back the way she came. On the outskirts of town, she ventured off road, headed back toward Baños, wading through grass on an overgrown trail. She’d skirt the town. But the undergrowth was quickly becoming formidable and the incline up to Tungurahua started almost immediately. From her pack, she drew the hunting knife she had purchased in Quito in its canvas sheath, strapped it to her belt.
It promised to be a long night.
After less than a mile what little trail there was became non-navigable in the dark. She was a sweaty mess. Baños lay to her left, dark and unnerving. Tungurahua loomed to the right. She’d sneak back into town here, connect up with the main road, head east, towards Verligting.
As she got onto a dirt road into Baños, passing through rough sections of vacant cinderblock housing, she reached a once-grand colonial building, dark and empty. A door was open and the clatter of breaking glass from within quickened her pace. Men’s voices. Her nerves tightened at a small group of men who appeared on a side street.
“Hey, Chica!” one shouted. “Where are you going on such a beautiful night?” Another laughed.
“Need some company?”
If there was once thing Colleen could do, it was run. And she did.
Further into town, the twin white steeples of the Church of the Virgin of the Holy Water rose up out of the dark volcanic stone bell towers, lit up where other buildings were not. A large circular stained-glass rosette window above the entrance blushed in the dark. A generator chugged away.
Colleen moved her sheathed knife to the side pocket of her backpack.
Several soldiers were posted outside. An armored car sat in front of the park. A soldier in his thirties, with a pockmarked face, asked Colleen her business.
“I think my daughter may have checked in here.”
Thankfully, this soldier let her through.
Inside the church, where paintings of the local history of eruptions and the ensuing miracles performed by the virgin lined the walls, cots were lined up in the aisles alongside the pews. People slept, idled, milled about. Waiting to be evacuated, looking for loved ones. Nervous chatter echoed off the high church ceiling.
A middle-aged nun in a white wimple checked a longhand-written list of names when Colleen asked if she had heard from or registered a Pamela Hayes.
The nun looked up with a frown, shook her head.
“Fenna, by any chance?” Pamela’s perfect name.
The nun checked the list again, shook her head no.
“I guess my next stop is the settlement,” Colleen said.
“Please be careful,” the nun said, excusing herself to tend to a woman with a child that needed a diaper.
Outside, Colleen filled her canteen from one of the huge plastic water barrels that had been set up by the park. Then she headed east, out of town, toward the edge of the Amazon rain forest. She was soon back on darkened road, flanked by looming greenery. Everything grew with vigor near the equator.
She still had a good fifteen to twenty kilometers to go and it was the middle of the night. It was a good thing she wasn’t tired. Fear for Pamela’s life was good for something.
Behind her, she heard a truck grinding up as it approached. Without even looking, she stuck her thumb out. Any ride would be welcome.
The truck swung around her, a beat-up green thing from another time, with a fenced open back full of bleating goats.
It slowed down, engine grumbling.
She shifted her backpack up on her shoulders, picked up her feet before the driver could change his mind. She had her knife, just in case.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Where to, Chica?” the grizzled driver said, staring at Colleen from the steering wheel of the truck cab. He was barrel chested with a gut, a good twenty years her senior, in a faded red-and-white FPF futbol shirt. He had a round face to go with his belly. Both shook with the vibrating of the truck.
Colleen stood on the running board, sizing him up. She was a woman alone, traveling late at night in a country where norteamericanas were sometimes considered easy. The seats were torn and duct-taped, the cab littered with trash. On the radio, a mountain song played in Quechua, a language foreign to Colleen. An empty beer bottle rolled on the floor.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers. There wouldn’t be many rides available. And she had to get to Verligting sooner rather than later.
“Mera,” she said.
“Hop in.”
She scrambled up, pulled the creaky door shut. The cab smelled of farm animals.
And booze. She noticed the bottle wedged between the driver’s thighs. He put the truck into gear and it groaned out onto the narrow road.
She could feel him looking her over. She stared straight ahead at the green branches moving by, lit up by headlights.
“Leaving town?” he said. “Good idea.”
“You think she’s going to blow?”
“Any day. She’s quiet now but not for long.” Then, “Your Spanish is good.”
“You speak it a little different down here.”
“So, what’s a pretty gringa doing out all alone this late at night? All on her own, eh?”
Uh-oh.
“Looking for my daughter,” she said.
“Your daughter lives in Mera?”
“Verligting.”
“Oh, man. You’re not one of them, are you?”
“Not in the slightest.”
He took a swig from his bottle as the truck swerved, rested it between his legs. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Chica? Those nutters have shot at more than one trespasser.”
“I’m sure. Any idea how many there are?”
“Hundreds, I’m told.”
That sounded right. They drove for a minute or two.
He took his hand off the wheel and pulled the bottle again, a noisy swig.
“Want a drink, Chica?”
“No thanks.”
He shook the bottle at her. It sloshed. “Go on. Aguardiente. It’s good.”
Cheap firewater. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
She heard him swig his aguardiente. The truck veered when he did that. “So what do you like to do for fun, eh?”
“I’m not much in the way of fun these days.” She switched her bag to her left shoulder, placing a barrier between the two of them, the side pocket with her knife handle poking out within easy reach.
“I can take you to Verligting, if you like,” he said casually. “Well, the property line, that is.”
“How far is it?” Verligting wasn’t on her map. It wasn’t on any map.
“Oh, fifteen kilometers.”
Ten miles. “But where?”
“Not far.” He wasn’t going to tell her.
“Off the highway?” There was only one road as far as she knew, and they were on it.
He didn’t answer.
They began a steep decline, the mountain behind them, headed down into a long, dark valley, the twisting road following the river. Getting closer to Pam, after so long, and so far from home, felt surreal. Unsettling.
“So, wha
t do you do when you get lonely, eh?” he said, slurring slightly.
He wasn’t going to let up. “I don’t.”
“Come on. Everybody gets lonely.”
She ignored him.
“All I’m saying is that it’s a shame, a good-looking woman like you.”
She didn’t respond.
“Go on,” he said, brandishing the bottle again. “Have a drink already.”
She shook her head.
He muttered something to himself, swigged.
Not long after she heard the river, growing louder as it tumbled out of the mountains to her right. She knew a considerable waterfall lay ahead. It was a point of interest. A painting in the basilica depicted the virgin saving a man whose car had gone over in the 1920s.
Down another bumpy incline, they pulled off to the right.
“Where are we going?” Colleen asked, her nerves on high alert.
“The Devil’s Cauldron.” A grin crossed his face. “It’s worth seeing. You’ll like it.”
The waterfall. He was planning on parking, spending a little time with her. It would be a good place to ditch this guy.
He pulled into a small lot up to the waterfall, shut the engine off with a residual clatter. The crash of the water was thunderous. In the darkness, spray soaked the windshield, and beyond that, a sense of openness. Frightened goats bleated from the back of the truck.
“Well?” he shouted over the tumbling water.
“Since I can’t see a thing, I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said.
“And this?” His meaty hand rested on her thigh.
“Hands to yourself, amigo.” She gently moved his hand away.
“Do you need money, Chica?”
“No.”
A moment later he came in at her, like a football player for a tackle. She shoved him back.
Before he could come in for a second try, she had her knife out.
His mouth dropped. He froze.
Bad Scene Page 15
