by Clay Farrow
"Take your hands off Theresa," Miguel ordered.
The sergeant released her.
"Not giving her the money is the same as stealing from me," Miguel said.
"Colonel, I was going to return your money. She was only with Fidel for a short time," the sergeant said, attempting to stand at attention.
"He never come," Theresa shouted. "I wait more than three hours. He never come to his cell."
The sergeant was swaying slightly as he tried to remain at attention.
"What time did you give Fidel his rum?" Miguel asked.
The sergeant hung his head.
"Well?" Miguel demanded.
The soldier sheepishly held up an empty bottle. "We thought maybe he only wanted the girl."
The colonel glanced at the other soldiers. Each wore rum-foolish grins.
"If something has happened to Fidel, you'll pay, you little turd," Miguel cursed, slapping the drunken sergeant across the face. "Now open the gate."
The colonel's barked command sobered the trio of guards, and they quickly scrambled to unlock the gate. The barrier had barely opened when Miguel squeezed through the narrow gap and stomped across the prison yard. The prisoners had been roused by the fuss at the gate and each cell door had curious faces pressed against the bars. The three guards and Jeremiah chased after the colonel, followed by Alberto.
"Open up and get a light in there," the colonel ordered, stopping outside Hastings' cell.
The sergeant marched forward and unlocked the cell. Throwing open the door, he stepped aside. The other two guards shone their flashlights into the bowels of the dungeon. Each of the beams came to rest on a body, one on Pedro and one on Fidel.
"No gringo," the sergeant said.
Miguel marched to the center of the compound and yelled, "Turn on the searchlights."
As light flooded the yard, he pivoted in a circle and shouted. "Fidel is dead, murdered by the gringo. Has anyone seen him or knows where he's hiding?"
* * * *
The two old grave diggers stood side by side in the doorway of their cell. One of the old men glanced at his companion.
"What should we do?" he whispered.
His friend shrugged. "We didn't see the gringo, all we did was bury Pedro."
The old man sagely nodded. "Yes. And when Raul comes to work tomorrow, he'll tell the colonel we buried Pedro."
His partner was about to respond when the realization dawned on him. "Then Pedro must still be in the cell."
"Yes." Then the old man looked out across the yard and yelled, "Señor Colonel, we buried Pedro earlier tonight."
Miguel stalked over to the cell. Reaching through the bars, he pulled the old man to him. "How did you know it was Pedro?"
"The body bag was in front of his cell."
"Did you see him? Did you see his face?"
"No, Señor Colonel."
"Damnit," Miguel swore as he shoved the old man back into the recesses of his cell. "Get a jeep and a ladder, we're going to the graveyard."
"Colonel," the sergeant said, "the only one available is in the motor pool, and it needs a new muffler."
"I don't care, get it. And if the gringo isn't found, you'll take his place."
The colonel whirled toward the entrance. He double-timed for the gate with Alberto, Jeremiah, and the three guards scurrying to keep up.
30:
Rancho de la Noche – Wednesday
Monica Fremont stood in the center of the bedroom, her eyes glued to the closing door. She listened to the key rattle in the lock, then turned to face Amanda Alderman and Liz Dennison.
“What now?” she asked.
“We escape of course,” Liz replied and dashed across the room to the door. She tried the knob, then turned to the others. “It was too much to hope for.”
"Duh, Sherlock," Amanda said, casting a sideways glance at Monica and rolling her eyes. "We just heard it lock."
The last thing Monica needed at the moment was Amanda's sarcasm. She returned the teenager’s look with a frown and said to Liz. "Try the top of the door frame."
Liz reached up and ran her fingers along the door's molding. "Nothing."
Monica hurried to the nearest bedside table. She opened the drawer and peered inside.
“What are you doing?” Amanda asked.
“Seeing if a spare key was overlooked," Monica said as she walked around the king-size bed and searched the drawer in the other bedside table. She slammed the drawer closed and turned. "Nothing here either."
Monica paused, surveying the room. A second door, standing half-open, led to a bathroom. Her gaze went from the bathroom to the heavy brocaded curtains.
Liz walked over and parted the drapes, revealing a six by five foot window.
Monica tapped Amanda on the shoulder. "Turn off the lights."
The young girl hurried to the switch and plunged the room into darkness.
"Anything, Liz?" Monica asked.
"I can't see a soul, but I hear the soldiers talking and clanking beer bottles. It's coming from behind the palm grove on the other side of the patio."
Turning away from the window, she crossed the room to the bathroom.
Monica walked over to the window and looked out. Amanda joined her. Rick's body had been removed. All that remained on the patio was a dark stain where his head had lain. Monica slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze.
Amanda looked up at Monica. "I can't forgive him for betraying us, but in a way I feel sad and sort of miss him not being around. Does that seem weird?"
Monica bent and gave the girl a peck on the cheek. "Not at all, sweetheart. I'm positive he didn't know what Dr. Byers was going to do. Remember, Ken was his boss, but nonetheless he stood up for you. That took a lot of courage."
"I wonder if they'll notify his grandparents?"
"I'm sure they will."
"He told me they weren't happy with his decision to make this trip. They've never traveled out of Washington state and were extremely reluctant to let him go to a strange country. He promised to phone them every night and had done so. I bet they're frantic not having heard from him in more than twenty-four hours."
Monica led Amanda away from the window and over to the king-size bed as Liz returned from the bathroom and parked herself in front of the bedroom window, scrutinizing it.
The window's custom-made grill consisted of six vertical bars welded to two horizontal, wrought iron bars a foot from the top and bottom of the window. The outermost vertical bars extended above and below the window with the ends rounded to a ninety degree angle and imbedded into the exterior, masonry wall.
Monica watched as Liz measured the distance between the bars.
“The space between the two center bars is eight to ten inches. Maybe I can squeeze through.”
Amanda smirked and muttered, “In your dreams, Boobs Brazil.”
Monica gave the girl a stern look. "Amanda that was uncalled for. Apolo ..."
Liz whirled around. She marched over to Amanda and placed her face inches from the girl's. "Look little Miss Smartass, what have you suggested so far to get us out of this mess? Unless you have something constructive to contribute, keep that bottomless pit of venom you call a mouth, shut. There'll be plenty of time for a catfight once we're safe."
Amanda glanced at her aunt.
Monica scowled at the girl. "We're all in the same boat, and Liz's experience is invaluable. There will be no more sniping. I realize you're upset over Rick, but I want a truce until we're free and back in Belize. You don't have to like Liz, but you will respect her. Remember she had the backbone to stand up to Senator Guerra at Altun Ha while you and I remained silent. She took our side against her employer, putting her own life at risk."
Amanda's chastened gaze drifted from her aunt to Liz. "All I meant was you're too big. You're both too big."
The girl ran to the window and jumped onto the sill. She slipped one leg between the grill's center bars and rested her foot on the cem
ent ledge outside. Shifting her body sideways, she pushed her arm, shoulder, and head through the opening.
"No," Monica hissed, rushing to the window, "it's too dangerous."
"It's too late," Amanda replied, her torso sandwiched between the bars. She gritted her teeth and exhaled. Twisting and turning, she lunged forward in an effort to thrust herself through the narrow space between the bars.
Suddenly, she broke free of the steel embrace, catapulting headlong into space. She saved herself from plummeting to the cobblestones by hooking the crook of her arm around a vertical bar. The arm acted as a hinge, swinging the girl in a semicircle so that when she smashed into the grill, she was on the outside looking in. Amanda clung to the bars with both hands.
"Thank goodness for gymnastics," Monica murmured as she dashed to the window.
The soldiers were suddenly silent.
"Quiet," Monica whispered.
Monica desperately wanted to pull Amanda back to safety, but realized this might be their only chance of escape. She would suppress her own misgivings and do everything in her power to make their bid for freedom successful.
The three froze, waiting until the rumble of voices and clinking of bottles resumed.
"Step one," Amanda said. "What's next?"
"How far is it to the next window?" Liz asked, her head pressed against the grill. "It's too difficult to judge from this angle."
"It's too far to jump. Maybe twelve to fourteen feet."
"Shit," Liz said, stepping back from the window.
Monica turned her back to the window and gazed at the king-size bed. She looked over her shoulder at Amanda, her eyes blazing with excitement.
"What?" Amanda asked.
Monica ran to the bed and threw the pillows on the floor. She stripped off the bedspread and tossed the quilted duvet on the pillows. Finally, she pulled the top and bottom sheets free, tied them together and bundled them up in her arms. Looking at Liz, she asked, "Could Amanda fit through the bathroom window?"
"No, it's too small."
Monica retraced her steps and scrambled onto the windowsill. She tied a corner of the massive sheet to the top of the metal grill at a point closest to the window of the next bedroom. Once secure, she fed the other end of the sheet up and over the top horizontal bar to Amanda.
"Use it like a swing, like Tarzan using a vine."
Amanda eagerly nodded. "I got you."
She let out the cotton line as she edged to the far side of the window, her feet on the brick ledge and her free hand clinging to a vertical grill.
"You're not high enough," Monica said. "The surface of the top rail is flat and wide enough to stand on. You should be able to jump from there."
With help from Monica and Liz, Amanda climbed up the grill until she was standing on the top horizontal rail.
Monica tapped Amanda's leg. "The two sheets tied together must be over twenty feet long. Let out the amount you think you'll need to make it to the window."
Pressing her back flat against the wall, Amanda played out the linen until the sheet was draped in a U shape. Looking down at Monica, she took a long, drawn out breath.
Monica smiled up at her. "You can do it." She paused, then continued, "Clear your head of everything but the task at hand."
"I'm trying to, but I'm afraid the soldiers will hear me."
"Forget about them, their drinking and laughter will cover any noise you make."
"What happens if I don't make it? I'll crash onto the patio and alert the whole house."
"You'll make it, sweetie. You have done almost the same move back home countless times. Keep telling yourself that our survival depends on you. Now count to three and take a deep breath."
Monica jumped to the floor as Amanda gripped the corner of her improvised swing firmly in both hands. She bobbed her head three times, inhaled, and leapt into the air. She dove away from the window that was to be her destination, in an effort to build up as much forward thrust as possible. The linen vine extended to its full length. She kept herself at right angles to the wall and used her feet to help propel herself. She swept down in a deep arc as if she were an aerial act, the soles of her running shoes racing across the white stucco wall. She swung through the lowest point and was lifted toward the faraway window and freedom.
A foot from the window, Monica thought the sheet hadn't been let out enough. Any second now the trapeze would be pulled taut and Amanda would plunge to the cobblestone courtyard. Her upward trajectory was faltering. Monica uttered an involuntary shriek as Amanda released the sheet and reached out for the bars of the grill.
The guards fell silent.
Amanda seemed to hang in midair. Monica breathed a sigh of relief when the girl latched on to the lower horizontal bar and dangled from the grill.
She heard chair legs scraping on the paving stones. The guards! She scrambled up on the sill and made no attempt at stealth as she untied the sheet and pulled it in. Jumping down, she threw the linen on the floor in the center of the room.
The women raced to close the curtains as the sound of boots pounded across the courtyard.
"Señorita Dennison," Diego called out.
Monica sprinted across the bedroom and flipped on the lights, then slumped against the door. "Do it."
Liz pulled back the drapes and looked down on the lieutenant and his men.
"What was that, Señorita Dennison?" Diego demanded.
"The stupid woman saw a cockroach and screamed."
Diego was silent for a moment, then said, "No more disturbances tonight. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Jorge," she said in her sweetest voice.
Liz closed the curtains, while Monica doused the lights and joined her partner. The women pushed the edge of the curtain aside a crack and peeped through the slit to watch the guards and Amanda. The soldiers remained beneath the window engaged in an animated conversation and began laughing.
Monica saw Amanda was hanging from the grill by both hands and was certain she'd be spotted if she moved. Her arms looked as if they were being ripped out of their sockets. The poor girl couldn't hang on forever.
The hum of the guards' voices stopped; they were finally walking away. Monica and Liz slipped into the window opening in time to see Amanda wedge her foot between the wall and the grill and dislodge a small chunk of mortar. The sound of the cement hitting the cobblestones reminded Monica of a deafening explosion. She held her breath unable to believe they hadn't heard the crash, but the guards kept walking and disappeared behind the palm trees.
Monica and Liz waved Amanda on.
Clinging to the grill with both hands, she gradually pulled herself to safety, then slipped between the vertical bars and disappeared into the room
The two jubilant women turned to each other and hugged.
"I didn't believe she could do it," Liz whispered. "I didn't think anybody could. It's a miracle."
A beaming Monica replied, "If anyone can do the impossible, it's Amanda."
Their celebration was abruptly terminated by the sound of a key turning in the bedroom door lock. They started across the room but froze in the dim light as the door handle began to turn.
31:
Mayan Tomb, Santa Elena Graveyard – Wednesday
Hilton Hastings raced over the uneven cave floor, coming perilously close to falling as the wall of water bore down on him. He was three strides shy of the doorway to the tomb and had only one option. He seized it and veered to the right, slamming into the rugged rock face. Dropping to the floor, he curled into a fetal ball, his arms coiled protectively around his head.
The first tentacles of water stroked the underside of his ribs as they sought out the path of least resistance. For an instant the water was a warm bed, gently lifting him off the cold granite. He managed to suck in a lungful of air before being engulfed by the raging tide and tossed like tumbling dice on a Vegas gaming table. Flung against the wall, he felt he was on an express elevator going up, buffeted on the wild ride by jagged outcr
oppings. He crashed into the deepest recess of the cavern and the jolt splayed him out. The force of the current held him paralyzed in its grasp and it seemed to take an eternity for the torrent to ebb, and for the water level of Lake Petén Itzá to equalize.
When the water stilled, Hilton peeled himself off the face of the cave's ceiling. His first thought was his need for oxygen. He debated searching for an air pocket in the cave but decided he didn't have the time to waste. His best hope was to return to the tomb and swim for the grave, his only sure source of air. The flood had stirred up the cave's dirt and debris and reduced visibility to a few inches. He sensed the entrance to the tomb was somewhere down and to the left, and swam in the direction of the floor, groping his way as he went along.
The break in the wall came unexpectedly. He pulled himself through the passageway into the crypt. If the limestone burial slab hadn't been completely washed away in the deluge, he would be able to pinpoint the opening to the grave, but he had to move quickly. Pressing forward, his hands and fingers functioned as his eyes.
His palm sank into a soft goo. The porous stucco murals had already absorbed enough water to begin decomposing. He was responsible for an ancient treasure being lost forever.
Hilton was disoriented but fought his rising panic. Desperate seconds passed before he touched the finely-carved edge of the burial platform. Resting his feet on the limestone slab and bending at the knees, he launched himself toward the cave's ceiling, to what he hoped would be safety.
The further he rose, the clearer the water became. His hand hit something soft, and he swam closer. The ashen face of one of his grave mates loomed out of the murky water. Struggling to put some distance between himself and the corpse, he floundered into the moonlight.
Choking and spluttering, he broke through the surface of the water. A coughing spasm emptied his lungs, enabling him to gulp down much needed fresh air. He was back where he started, in his grave. And no matter how morbid the thought, his final resting place was a welcome and reassuring sight. But this time he was a mere three feet below the lip of the grave.
