by Clay Farrow
Amanda and Rick were seated at the picnic table under the gazebo, their heads locked together in whispered conversation.
"What have you been up to Richie?" Liz asked.
The startled youngsters bolted upright.
"Liz, please. You know I prefer Rick."
"I know, I know," Liz replied, patting Rick on the top of his head. "But you'll always be a Richie to me."
Amanda bounced to her feet. "Do you take great pleasure in being mean? Would it kill you to call him Rick?"
Monica saw Liz stop in her tracks and a scowl cross her face as she regarded the teenager.
"Amanda, it's alright. She's my boss, it’s okay."
"It isn't okay," Amanda declared, staring down Rick.
Monica watched Amanda inhale deeply and sensed the teenager was weighing the cost Rick would have to pay if she continued. Was the girl finally coming out of her defensive shell?
With a slight shrug, Amanda faced Liz. "Does making someone feel small, make you feel bigger?"
Inwardly, Monica was delighted by Amanda's standing up to Liz's bullying. This was the first defiance she'd witnessed in the girl over the past three years. Until now there had only been mute acquiescence to sidestep any potential dispute.
She wondered if Amanda could endure a prolonged test of wills? The teenager certainly looked like the Amanda of old, feisty like her father. But she sensed Liz's temper was on the verge of exploding. At the same time, it looked like Amanda's righteous indignation was coming to a boil. Two headstrong individuals.
Moving closer to Liz, Amanda cocked her head to one side. "Please tell me how humiliating someone makes you a better person?"
Monica could see Liz was seething and although Amanda didn't appear to need her help, she was prepared to intercede on the girl's behalf.
Several moments lapsed before a stony-faced Liz shrugged. An embarrassed grin spread across her lips. "Your young friend is right. There's no excuse for my behavior, Rick."
The tension in the air evaporated as Liz offered her hand to Rick. He eagerly grasped the apology. But when she held out her hand to Amanda, the teenager hesitated.
Monica was more than mildly surprised by Liz's capitulation, but she wasn't going to allow Amanda to revel in her victory and subject this woman to any further gloating. She cleared her throat. Once she had Amanda's attention, she held it with arched eyebrows.
Amanda grudgingly extended her hand, but before the two women could cement their truce, a helicopter swooped in low over the treetops. The aircraft circled the grassy plaza twice, before beginning its descent to the center of the plaza. Two armed men wearing Belize Defense Force uniforms were in the chopper's doorway.
Monica felt a growing sense of unease. In all her years in Belize, she'd never seen a helicopter land in such close proximity to ancient ruins – the risk of damage was too great. What could have triggered such a dramatic arrival?
The debris thrown up as the chopper touched down peppered the few remaining tourists being ushered off the site by Peter. They covered their heads and scattered, giving the aircraft a wide berth.
Once on the ground, the pilot cut the chopper's engine. Monica saw a man appear in the doorway and jump to the ground. Then two soldiers hopped out and began the process of refueling the chopper, pumping gas from forty-five gallon drums into the fuel tank through a rubber hose.
"That must be our ride," Liz said, striding toward the helicopter.
Rick reluctantly trailed after his boss, frequently glancing over his shoulder at Amanda.
Monica watched Liz cross the plaza toward the helicopter, then shifted her gaze to the figure standing by the aircraft. She felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, but couldn't put her finger on it. Even wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap there was something familiar about the man, something that made her apprehensive.
The pair were too far away for her to hear what they were saying, but she saw Liz and the man shake hands. There was a pause in the conversation as he stared directly at her. Then they seemed to be arguing. But Liz was abruptly silenced when he shook his head and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Monica noticed Peter had left the group of tourists and shuffled across the plaza to her side.
"Do you know them?" he asked.
"No, but the woman with me seems to. Since when have the BDF ever landed in the middle of a vulnerable archeological site?"
Peter stared at the armed men, drew a deep breath and called out in a shaky voice, "What do you think you're doing landing here? This site is a national treasure."
"We're here to arrest Monica Fremont," the man shouted.
Monica's jaw dropped in shock. The voice hadn't changed in thirty years. What was DEA agent Alberto Guerra doing here with the BDF? Her sense of dread escalated with each passing second. She looked over her shoulder for Amanda, who was standing a few paces behind her.
"The doctor? Whatever for?" Peter demanded.
"Theft of ancient artifacts."
The curious tourists formed a semi-circle behind the watchman.
"Have you a warrant, sir?" Peter asked.
Monica did an about face and threaded her way through the group of sightseers to Amanda's side. She took the young girl's hand in hers and watched as the soldiers finished gassing up and retrieved their weapons from the helicopter.
"Does it look like I need a one?" Alberto snarled, nodding at his armed men.
One of the female tourists approached Alberto. "Excuse me, but aren't you Senator Guerra?"
"No," Alberto growled.
The woman persisted, "If you're not him, then you're his twin."
Alberto faced the woman. "Back off you troublesome bitch."
Her mouth clapped shut. She stumbled backward toward the group gathered around Peter.
Alberto dismissed the caretaker and sightseers with a wave of his hand. "Back away! This is a police matter."
Monica tugged Amanda's hand. "We're leaving right now," she said, walking backwards toward their truck, pulling the confused girl with her.
The armed soldiers brought their rifles to the ready. Peter and the tourists retreated off to the side, giving Alberto an unobstructed view of Amanda and herself.
"Stop, Fremont," he ordered.
Monica halted.
Alberto tapped the taller soldier on the shoulder and said, "Go."
The soldier hurried out to the women. He began herding the pair back to the chopper, using his rifle barrel to prod them along.
"Who are the two kids?" Alberto asked.
Liz pointed to Rick. "He's my assistant. The girl is the Fremont woman’s foster child, Amanda Alderman."
Monica saw Alberto's eyes widen and a smile spread across his lips.
"You don't say. It just keeps getting better and better. Get 'em on board."
Before the soldiers could load them onto the aircraft, Monica shouted, "Peter, they aren't BDF, they're Guatemalan Army."
The taller soldier clamped a hand over her mouth. Monica reacted instinctively and bit down on the web of his hand with all her strength.
The man yelped and released his prisoner, then used the back of his hand to deliver a vicious slap to Monica's cheek.
The blow sent her to the ground. Her attacker lunged for her.
"That's enough," Alberto yelled.
Holding her jaw, Monica rose unsteadily to her feet. She felt her cheek burning and thought of the large red welt she'd be wearing in minutes.
The tall soldier dragged her back to the chopper and threw her in. His partner followed with Amanda. The women crawled to the middle of the aircraft and pulled themselves onto the bench behind the cockpit.
Alberto climbed aboard and tapped Liz on the shoulder. "You two coming?"
Liz and Rick hoisted themselves into the chopper, taking two vacant seats by the open door.
Monica looked at Alberto. He remained in the doorway with his back to her, gazing down at his uniformed thugs. She saw him give them an i
mperceptible nod. Without a word they swapped their drum magazines for fresh seventy-five round clips.
"The mouthy one first," Alberto ordered.
Facing Peter and the tourists, the soldiers raised their weapons. The rifles erupted, shattering the peace of the ancient site. The woman who had recognized the senator was the first to be hit. Hurled three feet into the air, she crashed to the ground and lay motionless on her back. The hail of bullets continued, a lead scythe that quickly mowed down the other witnesses.
As soon as the carnage began, Liz shot to her feet shrieking, "Noooooo."
Before she could leap from the chopper Alberto placed the flat of his hand on her chest and slammed her into the bulkhead. Liz's head struck the metal wall with a resounding thud and she sank to the bench, dazed.
One thought churned through Monica's mind – she was partially responsible; by being a target and coming to Altun Ha she'd contributed to the deaths of Peter and those innocent tourists. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she rested her head against Amanda's. They were completely alone.
As Monica stared blankly at Liz, a gnawing thought nibbled at her conscience. She should have been standing with Liz. Then it dawned on her that this wasn't the first time she'd avoided taking a stand. For the past year, she had cast a critical eye at Amanda for not facing up to tough choices. Well, it was about time she took a hard look at herself. Since Alan's death she'd abdicated responsibility for her life and retreated into a cocoon of work. She had turned over all the decision making to Hilton. Well, Hilton wasn't here. It was time she took charge. Her duty was to Amanda.
The soldiers, their weapons smoking, hopped into the helicopter and collapsed on the bench opposite their prisoners. Unclipping the empty magazines from their AK-47s, they eyed their female captives from head to toe with lecherous grins.
The helicopter engine turned over. The Huey's blades began to rotate.
Monica was desperate. The chopper was about to take-off and there wouldn't be another opportunity. She couldn't fathom Guerra's twisted reason for keeping them alive, but she was certain she and Amanda would eventually share the same fate as Peter. And from the looks Guerra's hoodlums had given them, she suspected their remaining time wouldn't be idyllic.
Now it was time for her to become a role model Amanda could look up to and emulate. She squeezed Amanda's hand to get her attention. The truck was thirty yards away. Their chances of escape were slim, but what were their chances if they did nothing?
"Amanda, run," she hissed.
Leaping off the bench, Monica pulled the young girl after her. She took two steps to the chopper's hatch and elbowed her way past Alberto. Together the women jumped to the ground and sprinted for the pickup.
* * * *
Liz blinked twice and shook her head to bring the world back into focus.
The soldiers were fumbling to reload their rifles, which she hoped would give Monica and Amanda a few additional seconds.
"Stop," Alberto yelled.
She saw Amanda look over her shoulder, then slow to a jog. The shorter soldier slammed home his magazine and raised his weapon. He pulled the trigger. The round blew up bits of dirt inches from Amanda's feet. The clumps of earth nipping at her ankles startled the teenager and she bounded after Monica like a spooked gazelle.
"No," Rick shouted as he launched himself at the goon.
The short soldier ducked under Rick's flailing arm and drove the rifle butt into the young man's gut. Rick slumped to the floor of the helicopter, the wind knocked out of him.
Liz stood as Monica reached the pickup and leapt behind the wheel. The engine roared to life. Amanda grabbed the rim of the truck bed and vaulted into the back. The vehicle reversed, its rear tires kicking up dust and gravel.
As Monica swung the truck around, the right front fender crashed into the gazebo. The canvas shelter buckled, dropping onto the hood. The truck peeled forward, fishtailing. Half the gazebo's wooden frame crashed onto the roof, leaving the canvas awning draped over the hood and windshield. Monica was driving blind.
Guerra's men fired a long burst. One of the truck's rear tires exploded. The rim of the tailgate was riddled with bullets and the cab's rear window shattered. The pickup spun out-of-control, tilted sideways on two wheels and wobbled fifteen feet before toppling onto its right side. Liz's hands flew to her mouth. She prayed Monica wasn't hurt. As for Amanda, she assumed the young girl had been thrown out of the truck bed and landed safely on the ground.
"Get 'em," Alberto shouted.
Liz pushed past Alberto and the soldiers, and raced toward the overturned vehicle.
"What are you waiting for? Move," Alberto commanded.
Liz heard the soldiers hit the ground running and pumped her legs harder. She looked over her shoulder to see where they were, then extended her arms to lessen the impact as she slammed into the chassis of the overturned pickup. Ignoring the pain, she clambered up onto the driver's door and peered in. Monica lay motionless. A crumpled heap on the passenger door.
19:
Los Angeles, California – Tuesday
FBI agent Bob Boggs stood in the darkness, observing the four individuals through the one-way window. Jeremiah Gantry, Gilles Wren, Julie McDonald, and Barry Muller, their attorney, sat on metal chairs, huddled around one end of a gray steel table in the cramped interrogation room. The room had a bare concrete floor and paint peeling from the ceiling and walls.
Bob drummed his fingers on the window frame and glanced at his partner Wayne Knowlton. It was all he could do to keep from flipping the intercom switch to eavesdrop on the scheming suspects and their shyster.
"Don't," Wayne cautioned.
Bob reluctantly pulled his hand away from the switch and flipped open the brown folder he held in his hand. Leafing through the contents, he chuckled. "Have you read this?"
"No."
"These freaks are straight out of Oliver Twist."
"What do you mean?"
"Hell, we have Fagin, an ex-junkie messiah with a platoon of wacko street kids running around the country bombing anything medical or scientific that is slightly to the left of Attila the Hun. Next, a teenage psychotic Bill Sykes, who crippled a kid at six and is probably responsible for more than a few murders. And then his girlfriend, the hooker-as-angel Nancy, who has been working the streets since she was fourteen."
Wayne laughed. "Bob, you've finally figured out it's a sick sick world after all."
“The only missing character is Oliver.”
Wayne arched his eyebrows. “Brad Ferry?”
Bob shrugged. “If he is, my gut tells me our tale of Oliver has a far different ending than the Dickens story. An untimely one.”
* * * *
In the interrogation room, Barry Muller looked directly at Gilles. "Did Brad Ferry die in the Byers blast?"
"How would he know?" Jeremiah asked. "I'm sure he didn't witness his death at the time of the explosion."
Barry issued an exasperated grunt. He threw his pen onto the legal pad in front of him. His eyes locked on Jeremiah. "Reverend Gantry, I'm here as a favor to Senator Guerra. If you or your associates aren't prepared to be truthful, you're wasting my time and yours. The senator's office should have told you what I expect."
The three suspects remained silent. Gilles and Julie looked at Jeremiah.
“Quit playing games, Reverend. With your arrest record, you’re well aware nothing anyone says here will ever leave this room,” Barry said, pushing back his chair and rising.
Jeremiah rocked back and forth for a moment, then replied, "We’ll answer anything you ask."
"So, once again," he said, taking his seat and shifting his gaze to Gilles, "did Ferry die in the bombing?"
Gilles, his face blank, looked directly at the counselor then nodded.
"Good. Now who used Ferry's phone to call Reverend Gantry?"
"I did," Gilles said as he hung his head.
"Who answered Dr. Byers' call?"
Gilles traced a scratch on the
metal tabletop with his fingernail and mumbled, "I did."
Jeremiah turned to Julie and demanded, "Where were you all this time?"
"He called you when I was moving the last of the animals into the lobby. When Gilles answered Dr. Byers' call, I told him to hang up and throw the phone away. I'm sorry I let you down, Jeremiah. I'm sorry I didn't protect, Gilles," she said, laying a hand on Gilles' arm.
"It wasn't your fault," Gilles said.
"It wasn't anyone's fault," Jeremiah said. "Given the circumstances, this isn't the time for finger pointing."
"Did you use a credit card for any purchase?" Barry asked as he scribbled notes on his yellow legal pad. "Gas, food, anything?"
Julie shook her head. "I made sure we only used cash."
"What about the license plates?"
"Once we got to Seattle," Gilles said, "we pulled into a truck stop off of I-5 and swapped plates. On the way home, after I called Jeremiah, I replaced the stolen plates with ours."
"Where's the BMW everyone is looking for?
"Where nobody will find it. At the bottom of Puget Sound. Like Ferry, it has vanished from the face of the earth."
"Okay, here's how I think things stand," Barry said, setting his pen down and looking at Gilles. "They'll say you answered the call from Dr. Byers. We'll contend it was Ferry who was responsible for the bombing and answered Byers' phone call. He quickly realized his mistake and hung up."
"Would a scientist be that thoughtless?" Jeremiah asked. "Do you think you can convince the FBI of that?"
"I don't have to. They have to prove it was Gilles who answered. Now, if the phone call to the reverend is the only other evidence they have, I don't foresee a problem. It was a wrong number, but understand that time isn't your friend. I'm inclined to think the investigators will turn up some forensic evidence that Ferry died in the blast. They will also likely recover the BMW."
"When do you think they'll be releasing us?"
"I hope within the hour," Barry replied as he faced the one-way window and waved at the agents to come in.
