The tangy smell of metal was all around. The flatbed’s steel bottom felt cold against the backs of her arms. She would have given anything at that moment to be able to see what Rodrigo and the others were doing, but she dared not lift her head. Her hands were down by her legs, palms flat against them, straight. She touched the cargo pocket of her pants. Felt the lumpy stones of the rosary. She slid her fingers in the pocket. Wrapped them around the rosary, tight. She thought of Gladys. She pressed the stones into her palm, took a deep breath, and waited.
After what seemed like forever, but must have only been minutes, she heard a man walking next to the truck. His feet crunched on the stone ground. She felt the truck cant to one side as someone stepped onto the wheel well. A shadow fell across her face. She looked up and locked eyes with Rodrigo.
“So, lady, there you are.”
He shoved the boxes aside, grabbed her arm, and hauled her upright. He yelled to Mathilde as he dragged Emma across the back of the truck to one of the huts. He dumped her on the ground. Mathilde sauntered up and kicked dirt at Emma. The bits of earth landed in Emma’s eyes.
Rodrigo gave an order. One soldier stepped forward, uncoiling a rope in his hand as he did. In seconds he had Emma’s hands and feet tied. Rodrigo motioned the soldiers away. They all nodded and shuffled to their vehicles. The young boy soldier moved the slowest. He cast Emma a look full of sadness and apology as he walked by. The soldiers climbed into their vehicles and drove out of the village. Only a few of Rodrigo’s guerrillas remained. They hovered forty feet away, on the edge of the jungle. Rodrigo motioned Mathilde into the hut.
Emma wasn’t alone for long. Mathilde reappeared. She strolled to Emma.
“Rodrigo called the Americans. They come. We will be paid a lot of money for you, but why they think you are worth it, I don’t know.” She yanked Emma’s backpack off her back.
“You won’t need this anymore,” she said. She tore into Emma’s backpack and rummaged through the contents, throwing the various items in the dirt. Emma watched her empty the small side pocket. She pulled out the remaining tube of Engine Red. Swiveled it open.
“Nice color,” she said.
“It’s mine. Don’t use it.”
Mathilde analyzed the lipstick. “It’s new. I shall try it.”
“No,” Emma said.
Mathilde raised an eyebrow. “You don’t tell me what to do.” She went back into the hut. After a few moments, she returned. In her hand was a small round mirror. She smirked at Emma and brought the Engine Red to her lips. Emma lurched to her feet. The ropes around her ankles hobbled her, and she fell to her knees.
“Don’t! It’s poison. It will kill you.” Emma infused the warning with all the intensity she could.
Mathilde flipped her hair. “I will look beautiful while I watch you die.”
“I’m telling you, it’s poison. Do not touch it.” Emma pleaded with her.
Mathilde ignored her. She prepared to apply the lipstick.
“Mathilde, don’t!” Emma was frantic. “You’ll kill us all.”
“Liar,” Mathilde said. “I saw Maria in the forest. She wears it. You gave it to her.” She leaned forward. “We will deal with her later.” Her gaze returned to the mirror, and she rubbed the stick across her lips, leaned back to look at her image. The color complemented her olive skin and dark hair. She threw Emma a superior look.
Within seconds, she started to sway. The blood left her face in a rush, rendering her skin pasty white. She started to cough. She clawed at her neck and made gagging sounds. Panic rose in her eyes. She staggered to the hut’s door, holding her throat, just as Rodrigo stepped out. She dropped to the ground, writhing. Rodrigo asked her a question in Spanish, but all she did was show him the lipstick still clutched in her hand before she pointed to Emma.
Rodrigo rounded on Emma. “What have you done?”
Emma wanted to cry. She shook her head. “I told her not to touch the lipstick. It’s poison.”
Mathilde began foaming at the mouth. Rodrigo stepped back in revulsion. He stormed over to Emma, his machete drawn. He grabbed her by the hair. Placed the machete at her throat.
“Poison. Is it true?”
Emma nodded. “It’s true. It’s a weapons-grade nervous system disrupter.”
“Who made it?”
Emma sighed. “I did.”
“Will she live?” Rodrigo jutted his chin at Mathilde’s prone body.
Emma sighed again. “No.”
“Is there a cure?”
“I can make a liquid that will halt the poison. An antidote. But it would be for us. She is lost.”
“What do you mean, for us?”
“The molecules release into the air, like a miasma. It works as a nervous system disrupter and paralytic.”
Rodrigo pressed the machete closer. “I don’t understand these English words!”
“Think of rabies—you know the word rabies?”
Rodrigo nodded.
“The lipstick kills on contact, but it also kills through secondhand exposure. When the stick is rubbed on warm skin the molecules release into the air like a cloud, affecting anyone in a ten-foot radius. For those of us subject to secondhand contact, death is delayed. We have twelve hours.”
Rodrigo started breathing faster. “Make the cure.”
“I need to get to the Lost City. The only plant that will reverse the effects grows there. I destroyed all the others in my lab, because the same plant can create the weapon.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Emma waved her bound hands at Mathilde. “What’s not to believe?”
“I mean about us. We have not touched the poison.”
“I told you, it’s in the air. You just can’t see it. And don’t tell me that you don’t believe. You were there when the Americans came looking through the hostages. You wanted to know why it was so important that they find me? Well, now you do. They’re arms traders. They’re looking for the poison to sell on the black market.” Emma watched comprehension dawn in Rodrigo’s eyes. He thought a moment.
“The Lost City is a six-hour walk from here. We cannot get there and back in twelve hours.”
“We only have to get there, not back. I’ll make the antidote once we arrive.”
“I tell you, we can’t go there. The path runs through Cartone cartel territory.” Rodrigo shrieked the words into Emma’s ear.
Mathilde started convulsing. Rodrigo shot a look at her, jerking on the ground. He was sweating. Emma could smell his fear. She sought a way to calm him down, to reassure him before he exploded.
“You’re wrong,” she said in a patient voice. “We can go there. We’ll pay the protection money. That’s what the tourists do. That’s what I did when I went there last year.”
“I told you, I can’t go there. It’s Cartone cartel territory. They’ll kill me on sight.”
Now Emma understood. “But I can go there. I have gone there.”
“The cure. Now.” Rodrigo pushed the machete again. Emma felt a sting. A line of warm blood ran down her neck.
“What you are demanding is impossible. I told you, I need to go to the Lost City. You can stay here. Send one of your men with me. They weren’t close enough to be affected. Have one walk with me and another one waiting on the path. The fresh man can run the antidote back to you in time. Or come with me. Perhaps the Cartone foot soldiers will not see you.”
“The soldiers line the path to the Lost City. You will not see them, but they will see you, and for sure will know me,” Rodrigo said.
“Then you must send someone with me to run the antidote back. Decide now, Rodrigo. You need to release me, quickly.”
Rodrigo stayed still, breathing hard. After a moment, he lowered the machete, cut through the ropes binding Emma’s arms, and stepped back.
“So. Go. But do not double-cross me. You have eight hours. I’ll find your friend, and each hour you are late, he will lose a piece. First his left arm, then his right.” Emma didn’t
doubt that Rodrigo would track Sumner.
“First you put down your weapons, order your men to do the same, and lay face-first on the ground.”
“No!” The cords stood out on Rodrigo’s neck. Mathilde made a groaning sound. Her eyes rolled back into her head as her throat convulsed.
Emma pointed at Mathilde. “You’ll look like her in twelve hours, Rodrigo. Put down your weapons. If you don’t, you’re a dead man, because I refuse to go.”
“You will die, too, if you don’t make it.”
“If you don’t put down your weapons, then I know you will track my friend the minute I leave here. Either you put down your weapons or I don’t go. It’s that simple. But decide quickly, Rodrigo. We’re wasting time.”
The remaining guerrillas gathered around Mathilde, wide-eyed and silent. Rodrigo gave a sharp order.
The men looked at one another, confused. Emma assumed that their confusion stemmed from the nature of the order. Rodrigo bellowed the same order. This time the men jumped to obey. Their guns rattled as they were dropped, one on top of another, in a pile. They unbuckled their ammunition belts and removed the weapons strapped to their ankles. They lowered themselves to the ground, face-first.
Emma turned to Rodrigo. “Now you.”
His face was red, his lips pressed tight. He tossed his machete at her feet, so close that she had to jump back to avoid being cut. He lowered himself to the ground.
Emma recovered Rodrigo’s machete. She went to the pile of weapons. Unloaded each one and took the three ammunition belts.
Emma retrieved her backpack next to the fallen Mathilde. The woman no longer convulsed. She was dead.
Emma pried the lipstick tube out of her clenched hand. She tied up each man. Rodrigo was last. He glared his hate at her. Emma didn’t flinch. As she tied him, she bent closer. Her face was only inches from his.
“The next time you mess with me, you die. You’ve been in over your head this entire time, Rodrigo, deeper than your small brain can comprehend.” She stood. Waved at the man they called Manzillo.
“Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”
“Manzillo!” Rodrigo shouted to the farmer, who stepped forward. He spoke in Spanish so the American lady wouldn’t understand him. “Show her the way to the Lost City. Get back here as fast as you can. After she gives you the cure—kill her.”
51
THE PATH TO THE LOST CITY WAS STEEP AND ROCKY, BUT AT least it was clear. Emma didn’t need a machete to navigate it. She ran in long strides, working her way up the mountain. She settled into a race pace, but she knew she wouldn’t sustain it for twelve hours. She was too hungry, thirsty, and tired. Manzillo ran next to her, huffing and puffing. In the distance came the baying of hounds. Louisiana State was back with his bloodhounds. She remembered Mathilde saying that Rodrigo had called the Americans. They must have discovered him bound and tied and were mounting a search for her.
After an hour of running, she came to a fork in the path. Manzillo stopped.
“Which one goes to the Lost City?” Emma said.
Manzillo pointed to the left. “There. But I no longer come with you.”
“What about Rodrigo? Who will take him the antidote?”
Manzillo shifted his gun higher on his shoulder. “I don’t care. He is the devil. I will not help him live only to watch him kill again. If you want his life on your shoulders, then you take him the cure. But know this, lady, if you save him, then many more people will die. This is the way it is with Rodrigo. You will have these other people’s death on you.”
“Kill one to save many?” Emma said.
Manzillo nodded. He pointed to the path. “Go that way. There are no more forks.” He turned and trudged away.
Emma took a swig of the liter bottle in her backpack and resumed running. As she ran, she racked her brain to try to remember how many water crossings remained between her and the Lost City. When she’d made the hike the year before, she had started from a different location. Now she estimated that she was more than halfway there, much closer than the six hours Rodrigo had estimated. During the initial trek she thought she navigated seven or eight water crossings. At this height she might have two left; one would be waist-deep. Perhaps a water crossing would dilute her scent enough to make the dogs unable to track her, but she doubted it. Besides, it wouldn’t take much for her trackers to figure out that she was using an existing trail. They had to realize she was headed to the city. If they knew enough to hunt her, then they knew why she was in Colombia.
The rains came, turning the track to mud. She sank ankle-deep, pulling each foot out with a loud sucking sound. The run became a slog at a sloth’s pace. The mud forced her to exert more energy than straight running, because of the strength needed to free each foot from the mire. The rain created its usual drumbeat noise, canceling out the howling dogs. This drove Emma’s adrenaline higher. She hated not knowing how far they were behind her. The rains subsided. Emma strained her ears to listen for the howls. They were there, in the distance. Softer. The rains must have slowed them down, too.
Emma turned a corner and came upon an indigenous village. Round huts with conical, pointed thatch roofs sat in a semicircle. Several women cooked over an open fire while two children played in the dirt near them. All stopped and stared at Emma. One woman gave a sharp command to a child of about ten. He took off, running. He entered a hut on the far side of the village.
Within seconds, Emma was surrounded by men and women. She remembered the village from her trek the year before. She was close now. Close to the place that these people held sacred.
A wizened man stepped out of the farthest hut. Long white hair hung down his back. He held a large staff as a walking stick. He wore the trousers of the same burlap material that all the villagers wore, with a rope belt. The villagers parted to allow the man to walk toward Emma. When he reached her, he stared at her, saying nothing. His dark eyes held concern and the wizened look of a man with the knowledge that comes only from many years of living.
“I’m in trouble. I need your help.” She put her hand in her pocket. Fingered the rosary there. She pulled it out and started worrying the beads between her fingers while she watched the old man. He said nothing. Far off in the distance came the baying of the hounds. Emma worried the beads faster.
“They want the poison I can make from the special plant I found in the Lost City. The one with the black berries. I made it by accident and refused to give it to them. Now they are hunting me.”
The man said nothing.
“I must reach the Lost City. But I don’t know if I can make it. I haven’t eaten and my legs are weak.”
The old man gave an order. A younger man, dressed in the burlap pants of the indigenous but sporting expensive black Wellington boots, stepped forward. From a pocket he dug out a woven pouch. He handed it to the old man. The old man upended it. Several coca leaves fell into his palm. He waved at another young man, who stepped forward with a gourd. The young man opened the top of the gourd and used a stick to pour powder onto the leaves. The old man rolled the leaves between his palms. He held the resulting roll out to her.
For the indigenous people, coca was sacred. It figured in their religious rituals as well as their daily lives. They also used it to maintain energy. While chewing coca, they were able to work long hours without stopping or eating.
Emma knew that the man believed he was offering her a gift of great value, greater than food. She didn’t want to insult him by refusing, but she was wary of going near it. During her trip the year before, she’d been careful to avoid any contact with it.
Emma knew exactly how it worked its magic. How it changed exhaustion to exhilaration, suppressed appetite, and helped control altitude sickness. What areas of the brain it affected to alter its chemistry. How its effects then dissipated, leaving the person who used it feeling bereft, depressed, and drained. How those people who were unlucky enough to get addicted started on an endless cycle of lesser and lesser highs, with
deeper and deeper lows, until they felt trapped in a soul-depleting hell. Like the man who’d driven his car into Patrick’s. The autopsy revealed that the man had both alcohol and cocaine in his system. He’d been drinking the alcohol to “unwind” after a long night fueled by coke.
As a chemist, Emma had access to pure cocaine, as well as any other controlled substance she might have needed for her research. This access made her cautious. She had never tried cocaine.
She knew what the man held in his hand was fresh and unprocessed. This was coca in its pure form. If she chewed the leaves, it would release its energy-elevating power for hours, much longer than any food she could eat.
The old man held it out to her as an offering. Emma stood there, her breath heaving. She needed the immediate boost it would give her. She wasn’t sure how it would interact with the poison that she knew was filling her system, but she assumed the chemical reaction wouldn’t be good. It would likely accelerate the poison’s effects as it juiced her bodily functions. She didn’t know how much more quickly it would allow the poison to kill her, but she knew she wouldn’t get to the Lost City without it. And if she didn’t get to the Lost City in time, she was dead anyway.
“What do I do?”
The young man took another set of leaves from the pouch, added the alkali, and put the leaves in his mouth. He chewed, opening his mouth wide and closing it, exaggerating the motion to show her what he was doing.
She reached out, put the leaves in her mouth, and chewed. The coca had a pleasant, pungent taste. Her mouth became numb in seconds. She swallowed and her saliva tasted bitter. She coughed, choking on the acrid liquid. Emma felt the drug’s effects almost immediately. She could feel her body start a low hum. She nodded to the old man.
“Thank you,” she said.
The old man stepped forward. He reached out and touched Emma’s hand holding the rosary. His hand felt rough but warm as it closed over hers. She stopped her fingers’ compulsive movements on the beads. He held her hand in his palm, stroked her fingers open, and removed the rosary. He placed it over her head like a necklace. When he was finished, he stepped back, nodded once, and waved her toward the trail.
Running from the Devil Page 24