by Clay Farrow
He scrambled to the cell door. There was no keyhole on the inside of the door. The cell would have to remain unlocked until he made his break, which was fine, as long as no one pressed too forcefully on the door. The problem was that the fit between the dead bolt and the lock drum was not at all snug. Any pressure would cause a loud metallic rattling. In the late morning, a gusting wind had triggered a clanking of metal on metal.
Exhausted, he curled up with his back to the door and dozed off. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but as the sun began to set, footsteps approaching the segregation units stirred him. Scrambling into a sitting position, he pressed his back against the solid iron door to prevent it from being opened.
"Fidel," a voice called out.
There were two of them. Hilton withdrew the penknife from his pocket and unfolded the blade. The footsteps came to a stop right in front of his cell door.
"Fidel, you there?"
Hilton felt pressure on his back. One of them was trying to push the door open. He pushed back. His breath caught in his throat.
"It's locked. He must have finished up."
"If he's finished, where's Pedro?"
"Maybe he forgot something, Sergeant."
"And until Fidel comes to the front gate to collect his rum, we'll take very good care of it," the Sergeant laughed.
Hilton kept the knife handy until the footsteps retreated and there was quiet. He gave himself an arm pump and silently screamed. Yes! They hadn't noticed the door didn't rattle, hadn't realized the cell was unlocked. Exhaling, he slumped against the door.
With nightfall, he waited until the inmates had been locked in their cells, then gathered together the meager survival kit he had acquired from Fidel and set his escape in motion. Slipping out of the cell, he locked the door, in the hope Fidel wouldn't be missed until the next morning.
Hilton darted to a concrete pillar that supported the walkway above. Kneeling, his gaze swept over the prison yard. The main entrance was lit up like a Christmas tree, while the center of the prison compound was in complete darkness. Street lamps attached to the catwalk above the second storey cells lit the perimeter, but the distance between them created wide swaths of darkness.
He weighed the benefits of moving closer to the light, but decided it was too risky. The chance the graveyard crew would miss him was small. Word of Pedro's death would have quickly spread through the prison. He climbed into the mattress cover and pulled it over his head. Using the sailmaker's needle and twine, he stitched up the opening. Then he cut a one inch slit in the reeking mattress cover at eye level and settled down to wait.
Constantly peeking through the slit, his nervousness increased with each passing hour. Had his impulsive streak conned him into acting too rashly? But each time he scrolled through the alternatives, he came right back to his initial idea - to stuff himself into a threadbare mattress cover that would probably split open as soon as it was lifted. As risky as the plan was, it was the only way he would ever get beyond these prison walls.
There was a crunching sound. He lifted his head and looked left, his eye pressed against the slit, riveted on the front gate as it rolled open. His wait had ended. A tractor, towing a trailer, chugged into the compound. The tractor driver had the butt of a rifle propped up on his thigh. Hilton's vigil continued as two elderly inmates clambered off the back of the trailer and picked up the other two corpses. The guard fired up the tractor and aimed the vehicle towards the isolation cells
Hilton laid his head back down. His ears were now his eyes and he hated the thought. Without being able to see, he had no means of anticipating or preparing himself. Whatever happened, he had to be silent if he expected to survive.
He heard the two inmates step out of the cart and shuffle over to his filthy shroud.
One prisoner asked, "Do you want us to see if Pedro has any valuables?"
Hilton cringed. If they opened the body bag he was toast. He tightened his grip on the penknife, unwilling to go down without a fight.
"Fidel has already picked him clean. Hurry up."
He assumed it was the guard who replied. The thought of an enemy as a benefactor made him smile.
He felt the prisoners grab the ends of the mattress cover. They lifted his head and legs. His back was dragged along the ground as they struggled to lug him back to the trailer.
"Pedro's a lot heavier than he looked," one of the inmates gasped.
He heard one of the inmates step into the trailer, then the other. Twice they heaved and it was all he could do to remain silent after the abortive attempts to haul him into the wagon resulted in him slamming into the trailer bed. They succeeded on the third try and let him collapse on the floor beside a pair of burning kerosene lanterns.
As he landed, his head hit the wood floor with a thump and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. And as much as his ribs hurt, he was elated to have overcome the first hurdle – the mattress cover had held together.
The tractor spluttered to life then rolled forward, and Hilton felt a surge of joy when he heard the wheels of the first prison gate roll open. Only one more barrier he thought, then freedom. The intensity of the light as they entered the laneway made it seem like noon, and he hoped the outline of his body wouldn't create problems. He was a good four inches taller than Pedro and had broader shoulders.
"Raul," a voice shouted.
The tractor jerked to a stop.
"Si, Colonel Rodriguez."
"Have you seen Fidel?"
Hilton tensed. His escape couldn't be over before it had begun.
"No, Colonel, but I saw Theresa go into his cell."
"Good. Carry on."
He heard one gate close and a second open as he felt the tractor shunt forward. Hilton could barely contain his elation. In a short time he would be free to continue his search for Monica and Amanda. His euphoria increased as the lights around the prison entrance faded. Soon, there was only the light cast by the pair of kerosene lamps.
The game plan, once he was beyond the confines of the prison walls, had been reduced to two possibilities. The first was to overpower the burial crew. He didn't think the two old men would be a problem, but the distance to the armed guard made that option too risky. He'd be shot before he got halfway to him.
The second concerned the graves themselves. The mounds of earth he'd seen on his arrival at the prison were far too large for a single six-foot hole. Hilton was certain those mounds were the product of four or five shallow graves no more than three feet deep. If he could somehow end up face down in the tomb, he could create a tiny air pocket using his knees and elbows. Enough space to breathe and have adequate movement to push up through the loose earth once the work gang returned to the prison.
The steady drone of the tractor seemed endless. At one point during the journey, he heard the whine of a boat's outboard engine echoing across Lake Petén Itzá. After what seemed an eternity, the tractor shuddered to a stop and the driver turned off the engine.
He heard the inmates pick up shovels. They retrieved the lanterns and jumped off the trailer. There was a scraping sound, which he assumed were the shovel blades being planted in the ground. They returned to the trailer and he felt them grab hold of either end of his cotton casket. The two old men dragged the body bag off the rear of the cart, letting the sack tumble into the dirt.
Hilton landed on his side. He took the chance and used the slit in the body bag to steal a look at his final resting place. He had prepared himself for a three-foot fall, but when he looked down he almost screamed. There had to be some mistake. This wasn't the expected three-foot drop; his fall would be closer to a fifteen-foot crash landing.
The prisoners rolled the body bag over the lip of the pit. Hilton plummeted face down into the tomb. His arms shot straight out, tearing through the thin cotton, his hands spread, palms down. His arms and shoulders absorbed much of the impact that otherwise would have shattered his ribcage or crushed his lungs. When he hit the bottom of the trench he let ou
t an agonizing groan.
Hilton slowly freed himself from the body bag, then twisted on to his side, struggling to breathe. He was still in one piece although his ribs hurt like hell. He shook his head to gather his wits. When he landed he had the strangest sensation, as if he'd sunk two or three inches into the floor of the crypt.
The crew must have heard his cry. He looked up at the starlit sky. It would only be a matter of seconds before the guard was on him, his rifle aimed directly at him. Flopping onto his back, he dug out his penknife and placed the tip of the blade between his thumb and index finger. Although he'd never thrown a knife, if he was lucky he just might get the guard before he was shot, then possibly climb out of the grave with the help of his fellow prisoners.
* * * *
The inmates' heads bobbed upright when they heard the moan from the grave and they stared at one another. Without a word, they glanced over their shoulders to see if the guard had heard the sound.
The tractor driver was resting his forearms on the steering wheel, idly smoking, paying no attention to the burial. One old man picked up a lantern and held it out over the grave. He peered over the edge of the chasm into the gringo's eyes. They held each other's gaze. Finally, the old man broke the spell and straightened up.
"It's the gringo," he whispered.
"I knew Pedro wasn't that heavy."
"What should we do?"
"We have to tell Raul. If we don't, we'll join the gringo."
"No. We did as we were told; we buried three men. And he did us a favor."
"How?"
"If he's alive and here, where's Fidel?"
His partner's eyes lit up with a sudden insight. "Fidel must be back there," he whispered, nodding his head in the direction of the prison.
A knowing smile crossed the old man's lips. He nodded gravely. "No more Fidel."
"Hey," the guard shouted. "What are you two jabbering about? Get back to work."
They straightened up and as quickly as their old legs could carry them, scrambled into the rear of the trailer.
The old men grabbed the same end of the second flimsy body bag. They dragged the corpse out of the cart to one end of the grave and lowered the cadaver into the hole as far as they could before letting go.
* * * *
Hilton didn't understand why they didn't simply drop the cotton wrapped remains, but he wasn't going to question his good fortune. He pressed his back against the narrow wall at the opposite end of the trench. The corpse crashed into the dirt feet first and pitched forward. The dead man's head landed inches from Hilton's feet. He gazed skyward, wondering where the armed driver was.
His question was answered when a head once again appeared beyond the edge of the grave. The wrinkled face hovered there, looking down at Hilton with a broad toothless smile. "Go with God, Gringo," the old man whispered, then the head disappeared.
Moments later the last corpse tumbled into the tomb. Again, Hilton sensed the ground was sinking beneath his feet.
He heard the prisoners trudge back to the trailer, then silence.
"Finish the job," a voice commanded.
Hilton heard the old men shuffling around the edge of the grave. Then clumps of earth rained down on him. He sprawled flat out and remained motionless while he was buried under four inches of dirt.
"That's enough," a voice said, "Leave plenty of room for others."
Hilton didn't move a muscle until he heard the tractor's chugging engine fade in the distance. Once there was silence, he clambered to his feet. Looking up, he figured he had at least a twelve-foot climb ahead of him. The grave was no more than three feet wide. He tested the sides of the ditch and concluded the soil wouldn't crumble under his weight.
He braced his back against one wall and pressed his hands against the opposite wall, with enough pressure to support his weight. Next, he jammed one foot into the wall, directly below his hands at knee height; the other he tucked up under his butt. Flexing his legs, he pushed up until his legs were straight. He repeated the procedure time after time, inching his way up the wall.
Ten minutes later, he was two feet from freedom and that much closer to continuing his search. He was positioning his left foot on the wall when his hand slipped. Dropping like a stone, he landed catlike on his feet. He slumped against the wall, silently cursing, and prepared for his second attempt to scale the grave. But without warning, the ground beneath him collapsed. He fell, plummeting toward the center of the earth, plunging headlong into blackness.
27:
Rancho de la Noche – Wednesday
Rick Calvin drifted into the gray shadows of the hacienda's courtyard, moving in behind Ken. He kept one eye on the uniformed goons and the other on the standoff between Monica and his boss. He was determined to free Amanda, no matter the risk. He had let her down once and wouldn't disappoint her again.
He knew Ken was desperate, but he also knew that even more dangerous than the desperate were true believers. And Ken was a true believer. The scientist subscribed to the idea that no moral or legal constraints could be placed on him; he was above the laws of both God and man.
Rick shivered at the thought. He knew what true believers were capable of because he saw the remnants of one every time he looked in a mirror. He had once believed extremism in the defense of the Lord was not a sin, but his conscience could no longer support that belief. Remorse and his desire for Amanda's approval had conspired to moderate his views. Haunted by what he had done to Dr. Jeffers, to JJ, at Tikal, he frequently prayed for absolution.
He had to proceed cautiously, but there was also an urgency. Ken had applied his choke hold with such force that Amanda was gagging. He winced as Ken pressed the edge of the glass vial down on the young girl's lower lip and began to slowly upend the tube containing the aphrodisiac.
* * * *
As Monica Fremont struggled to her feet, using the wrought-iron chair for support, she noticed Rick creeping up behind Ken. She had to keep this lunatic's attention focused on her. "Stop! You're strangling her. Your duty is to save lives, doctor, not destroy them."
Ken righted the flask. "You talk about duty. You can save her life. Why not do it?"
"Let Amanda go!"
Liz stepped between the two. "Ken, ruining one life to save another is insane. And I've know how being raped can affect a young girl."
"It's not really rape," Ken chortled. "She'll be the one initiating each and every depraved act. Talk to Dr. Fremont if you want to postpone the show."
Liz faced Monica. "Give him the damn formula and put a stop to this nonsense."
Monica's shoulders sagged. She felt she was running on empty. "It's a very complex formula," she sighed. "I've told you the recipe has fourteen ingredients."
Liz nodded.
"I can't remember them all. Do you honestly think I'd risk Amanda's life?"
She paused, then looked from Liz to Ken. Then her gaze shifted to the pistol in Liz's waistband. If Rick didn't do something in the next few moments, she'd have to act. "Don't you think I'd do anything I could to save millions of lives? I'm not a monster."
"But I am," Ken laughed.
"Have Liz take Amanda back to the resort," Monica begged. "I'll tell her where she can find my notes."
Amanda struggled against Ken's stranglehold, but only unintelligible sounds escaped from her mouth.
Ken loosened his choke hold and said, "Listen to the kid. She's the one who'll pay."
Monica was terrified Ken might explode before Rick or she could rescue the teenager.
Amanda looked over her shoulder into Ken's eyes. "Tell him to go to hell, Aunt Monica," she cried and spat in the scientist's face.
"You little bitch," Ken screamed, tightening his grip on Amanda's windpipe while he attempted to cram the vial between her securely pursed lips.
"Ken," Liz yelled, her voice sounded like the crack of a whip.
Monica saw Ken stop and stare at Liz, then right the flask. Rick stopped in his tracks as Liz extended her arm,
raising it level to her shoulder. Her pistol was cocked and aimed directly at Ken.
"You don't have it in you."
"Don't delude yourself. You know me well enough. I'll pop a cap into you without a second thought. Now let's have that test tube. Hold it out at arm's length."
Monica felt a sense of relief when Ken, after hesitating a moment, held out the vial. Liz moved in and stuck the rubber stopper into the tube, then tried to take it. But Ken pulled his arm back.
"I can't let you do this," Liz continued. "She'll never recover and will live with the horror until the day she dies. I know. I was raped at fifteen. The incident has colored every part of my life. "
There wasn't a sound. Apparently she wasn't the only one stunned by Liz's admission. The long silence was broken by four rifle bolts being thrown into place.
"Señorita Dennison," Lieutenant Diego ordered, "drop the gun."
Monica glanced at the soldiers, who had their rifles trained on Liz. A hushed ten seconds ticked by before Liz tossed the revolver at Ken's feet. The scientist released the girl and stooped to pick up the pistol. He slipped the gun into his waistband and grabbed Amanda's arm once more.
"Thanks Diego, you can sit down. Everything is under control."
The soldiers relaxed, lowered their rifles, and resumed their seats.
"Now, where were we," Ken said, tightening his grip on Amanda.
"No," Rick yelled, rushing Ken from behind and grabbing the hand that held the vial.
