“What the hell?” he demands.
“Genesis!” Sebastián roars from somewhere behind me, his voice an echo of rage and resolve.
He found Rog’s body.
He knows how we got away.
Fear gives me a fresh burst of energy and I lurch forward, Indiana’s arm still in my grip. We cannot be caught.
I can’t spend another day in the dark. Another night in the jungle.
Holden starts to run, stumbling over roots and foliage he can’t see very well, and I hope we aren’t following him just because he’s in the lead.
“Over here!” Sebastián shouts.
I don’t know how many of my uncle’s men are chasing us, but I know they have more energy. More strength. More resources. More experience beating their way through the foliage.
“This way,” Indiana hisses when Holden veers to the right.
My ex groans, but corrects his path. I follow them, trying to ignore how heavy my legs feel. How indistinct the trees and roots and brush look as they fly past.
A bright light appears ahead, and I stumble to a startled halt. “Indiana.” I grasp for his arm again. “What’s that? Did they get ahead of us?”
“I don’t think so,” he says as Holden turns to look back at us. “I think that’s the base camp.”
Holden scowls. “That light’s too bright to be—”
“Come on!” Indiana grabs my hand. “I think that’s a searchlight! The army could be looking for us!”
Brush rustles at my back. “I’ve got them!” Sebastián shouts. I look over my shoulder to see him pointing a pistol at my back. He lunges toward us, grabbing for my arm.
Indiana pulls me forward, and we’re running again, toward the light. Toward the bunkhouse. Toward the Colombian army, which, according to Indiana, has been looking for Holden and me for three days.
Footsteps clomp closer. A hand catches in my hair. I scream as I’m pulled to a stop and strands pop free from my scalp.
Indiana turns. “Let her go!”
Holden stops and spins toward us, but says nothing. His eyes are wide and watchful, as if he’s waiting to see how this will play out.
I spin and swing my right fist up. More hair pulls loose from my head. My punch lands on Sebastián’s jaw.
He staggers back, more angry than hurt by my weak blow. I lurch forward, but I’m exhausted and my steps are erratic. My foot lands on a thick branch and folds beneath me. Pain shoots through my ankle, and I scream again. I push myself to my feet as an Indiana-shaped blur flies past me. He tackles Sebastián. They hit the ground, and the gun goes off with the soft thwup of a suppressor.
Fear blazes through me like a bolt of lightning. “Indiana!”
7 DAYS, 16 HOURS EARLIER
I know what to expect from this.
MADDIE
“Mom!” I bang on her bedroom door with both fists, even though it’s the middle of the night. If I don’t tell her now, I’ll lose my nerve.
There’s no answer.
“Mom! Wake up!” I try the doorknob, but it’s locked. “I need to talk to you!”
She mumbles something from behind the door, but I can’t understand her. She’s always been a light sleeper. In fact, after my father died faked his death, she hardly slept at all.
“Mom!”
When she doesn’t answer, I march into the kitchen and rummage through the junk drawer until I come up with a nickel. In the hall again. I stick the nickel in the slot on the back of her doorknob and twist to unlock it. The door swings open.
My mother lies facedown on her pillow, on top of the covers. Her pajama pants are twisted around her legs, and there’s an empty glass on her nightstand.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed. My father’s half is undisturbed. He’s been gone for nearly a year, but she never even rolls onto his side. The pair of jeans he tossed over the back of the chair near the closet before he headed to the airport on his last trip to Colombia is still where he left it.
“Mom.” I shake her shoulder, and she mumbles something in her sleep. The empty glass on her nightstand smells like rum, but I can’t really criticize her for that. At least, not until my own headache goes away. “Mom!” I shake her harder, and finally her eyes flutter open.
“Maddie?”
“Yes. Wake up. I have to tell you something.”
My mother blinks. Then she sits up and smooths hair back from her face. “What’s wrong, mija?” Her lips are dry and cracked. I should get her a glass of water. But I have to say this before I chicken out.
“Dad’s alive.”
She frowns and blinks at me. “What? Did you have a dream?”
“No. Mom, he’s still alive. He’s in the jungle.” Too late, I realize that she’s still half asleep, and I’m not making any sense. Because what I have to say makes no sense.
“Madalena, are you okay? Do you want me to make you an appointment with Dr. Hillard?”
“No, Mom, I don’t need a counselor. I know this sounds crazy, but Genesis called the hotline. She said my dad is still alive.”
“Maddie . . .” Her voice is soft with sympathy. She thinks I’ve lost my mind.
“Mom, I’m not crazy. She’s still in the jungle, and Dad is with her. He’s not dead. I heard his voice.”
My mother’s eyes widen as she assesses my state of mind. Finally she decides I’m telling the truth. Or at least that I believe I am. “In the jungle . . . ?”
“In Colombia. He’s alive.”
“Oh my God . . .” My mother covers her mouth and nose with both hands. Her eyes water, and too late I realize that she’s happy. Because I haven’t told her the rest of it.
“No. Mom, this isn’t good news. He . . .” There’s no easy way to say this. “Mom, Dad is the one who had us kidnapped. He’s the reason Genesis is still a hostage. The reason Ryan died.”
Her hands fall into her lap. “Maddie, that’s—”
“I know it’s ridiculous. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. If you don’t believe me, call Uncle Hernán.” He’ll believe me. And he’ll convince her.
My mom’s eyes fill with tears again, and we’ve now swung the full range on the emotional pendulum. She looks like I just put a pistol to her chest and pulled the trigger. I should feel terrible for putting my mother through this, when she’s already been through so much, but I can’t feel bad for her. Not right now. I can’t feel much of anything.
I feel numb. Like when you sit on your leg for too long, and your foot goes to sleep. Only the leg I’ve been sitting on is actually my own heart, and it’s so damaged that it can’t register any more pain.
But I know what to expect from this. When you hop on your foot, the first feeling that comes back is that hellish walking-on-nails sensation. A pain that makes you want to cut your own foot off.
My mother’s in that hell right now.
And I know that no matter how blessed I feel for my numbness at the moment, I’ll soon be in that hell with her.
Again.
It’s over.
GENESIS
Time slows as Indiana and Sebastián struggle on the ground. The suppressed gunshot wasn’t loud enough to be heard from more than a few feet away, but it echoes in my head like an explosion.
Finally Indiana gets up, holding Sebastián’s gun in one hand, clutching his head in the other. There’s no blood that I can see, but he looks dazed. “Stay down.” He aims the pistol at Sebastián’s chest. I don’t know if he’s ever fired a gun, but in that moment, he looks perfectly willing to shoot.
“You think you’re free, princesa?” Sebastián spits, staring up at us from the ground. “David can use you in the States as easily as he used you in the jungle. You and your friends are going to push another button for him. You’ll never be free.”
My pulse spikes painfully. What does that mean? Is he talking about my uncle’s plan B?
“Go!” Indiana shouts at me and Holden as he backs away from Sebastián, still aiming the gun at h
im.
I turn to run again—the light from the bunkhouse is just a few hundred feet away now—but my ankle folds beneath me.
Indiana kneels to help me up, but then he begins to wobble and has to grab my shoulder for balance.
“Holden!” he shouts. Holden reluctantly slows and looks over his shoulder. “Help her. I can’t . . .” He wobbles again when he stands.
Holden glances at me, then in the direction we’re fleeing, and I can see his thoughts as they flicker over his face. I’ll slow him down. He wants to leave us.
Indiana aims the gun at Holden’s foot. “Either we all get out, or none of us get out.”
I can’t tell whether he’s bluffing. Neither can Holden.
Anger draws his brows low as he snaps at Indiana. “You two are not going to get us caught again.” He sweeps me up in both arms, bandaging his wounded pride with a blatant show of strength, and takes off.
I cling to Holden for balance, and over his bouncing shoulder I see Indiana racing unsteadily toward us. Sebastián starts after us, favoring one leg, but alive and well.
A motor grinds to life from the bunkhouse ahead, and I can’t hear anything else. The light gets brighter as we get closer, blinding me through the tree branches. People are shouting, but I can’t make out any of the words.
My heartbeat is a cadence of uncertainty and fear. For all I know, my uncle could be herding us into a trap.
Holden bursts through a clump of brush into the clearing, and I blink, trying to take it all in. The bunkhouse looks just like it did last week, when we were led away from it at gunpoint, but this time there are no tents set up. This time, a crowd of men stands around the base of a tree on the edge of the clearing. Most of them wear camouflage and carry automatic rifles.
Exactly what our kidnappers wore.
My chest feels so tight my lungs won’t expand.
One of the men sees us. He shouts, and the motor dies; it’s a generator, powering the bright light. The soldiers turn, lifting their rifles. A camera flashes in my face.
A man in khakis and a dark polo shirt pushes through the crowd. “Genesis!” he shouts as he races toward us.
Tears blur the base camp in front of me as Holden sets me on my feet. It’s over. Finally the whole thing is over.
The man in the polo wraps his arms around me, and I inhale the familiar scent of his shampoo.
“Dad.”
7 DAYS, 13.5 HOURS EARLIER
Everything’s going to be okay.
MADDIE
“Mom! Breakfast is ready!” I slide her fried egg—over medium—onto a piece of buttered toast, then top it with two slices of bacon. Next come two tomato slices, a sprinkling of chopped cilantro, and a drizzle of hot sauce. Then the top piece of toast.
We used to have egg sandwiches for brunch every Saturday. Back when my dad was alive still here. Back when Ryan was around to steal my bacon and drink from my juice glass. Reviving the custom now could make us both sad. But I’ve decided it won’t. I’m reclaiming the tradition for what’s left of our family.
It’s just me and Mom now, and I’ve already half lost her.
I have to get her back.
“Mom!” I set her plate on the table, then make a sandwich for myself. I get open-faced, for fewer carbs—screw you, diabetes!—plus a sprinkling of cheddar cheese.
We each get a cup of coffee. Black. And a big glass of water with lemon. Because rum hangover.
I take a bite of my open-faced sandwich and chew as I walk down the short hall. “Mom!” I call again with my mouth full. My voice is relentlessly cheery, because my mother will wallow. After my father died faked his own death, she wallowed so thoroughly that she didn’t notice my brother’s descent into alcoholism. She’s been wallowing ever since she found out about Ryan. And since bad news seems to come in sets of three, I fully expect that finding out her husband is a terrorist will push her over the edge into bedridden, TV-watching, quietly drinking Mom.
Her bedroom door is locked again, so I open it with my trusty nickel, but she’s not in bed. “Mom?” I call, but there’s no answer.
The door to the tiny master bathroom is also closed and locked, but again my nickel prevails.
My mother is sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the tub. At first, I think she’s asleep. Then I see the pill bottle in her hand and the glass of water on the edge of the tub, still cloudy with toothpaste residue around the rim.
I stumble backward. My open-faced sandwich hits the linoleum. Then I fall to my knees on the floor next to her and grab the bottle. “Damn it, Mom!”
I fumble for my phone and dial 911.
“This is 911, what is your emergency?”
“I just found my mother unconscious on the floor with an empty pill bottle. They were prescription sedatives.” My voice sounds so much calmer than I feel. “She’s still breathing.”
“Good. I’m sending you some help. What’s your name and address?”
I give the operator the necessary information, and I’m relieved, in spite of the circumstances, when she doesn’t seem to recognize my name. Evidently not everyone watches the news.
“The ambulance is headed for you now. You should hear the sirens in a few minutes. While we wait, I want you to stay on the phone with me and give me some additional information. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” I say into the phone as I watch my mother’s chest rise and fall slowly. I take her hand. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell her, though she can’t hear me.
“What did she take?” the operator asks.
I pick up the bottle again and read her the label of the pills the doctor gave my mother a few days ago. After Ryan died.
“Do you know how many she took?”
“No.” The bottle shakes in my grip. “The label says there were thirty pills, and the prescription’s three days old. It says to take one per day. So she might have taken as many as twenty-seven today.” Thinking about that—about the numbers, the probability—is much better than thinking about what’s actually happening here.
About the fact that my mother would rather die than live in this sad half-family with just me.
I’m not ready.
GENESIS
My father’s embrace lifts me off the ground, and for a moment, all I can do is breathe him in. I’m furious at him. I may actually hate him. But I’ve known this scent all my life. His shampoo. His cologne. Even his sweat. In some strange, confusing way, I feel like I’m home, even though I’m still standing in the middle of the jungle.
Then Indiana bursts through the brush, carrying Sebastián’s gun.
Rifles swing toward him. One of the soldiers begins shouting in Spanish.
“No!” I pull free from my father’s grasp and step in front of Indiana, my arms spread, my pulse rushing fast enough to make me dizzy. I am his human shield. “¡Esperen! ¡Está conmigo!”
“¡Suelta el arma!” one of the men shouts.
“Drop the gun,” I translate for Indiana, without turning around. The pistol thunks to the ground at my feet.
“Está bien,” my father says, his hands outstretched as if to soothe the soldiers. “Es uno de nosotros.”
He’s one of us. My father doesn’t know Indiana, but he’s willing to vouch for him if I am.
“Dad!” I spin toward the jungle again, flinching as my ankle refuses to support me. “Sebastián was right behind us!”
He shouts an order in Spanish to the soldiers, and half of them take off into the jungle carrying their rifles. Eager to apprehend the fugitive.
“Princesa . . .” Tears stand in my father’s eyes. He holds his arms out to me, and some part of me wants to step into his embrace again. To accept the love and comfort he’s given me my whole life. But I can’t. Nostalgia and relief can’t make me forget the lie my entire existence has been built upon. The felonies that paid for every cent I’ve ever spent and every thread I’ve ever worn. Or the fact that this whole thing is his fault.
His, and his brother’s.
Hurt flickers over his features when I reject his hug, and though I saw him a week ago, the fine lines around his eyes and mouth suddenly seem deeper. I missed him. I still love him. But I don’t even know who he is anymore.
“Mija?”
“Dad, this is Indiana.”
My father tilts his head slightly, but accepts the sudden subject change. He holds his hand out, and Indiana shakes it. “Indiana. My niece and her friends have been frantic about finding you. The FBI has been stumped.”
“Well, I’m happy to have been found, sir.” Indiana even manages a smile, in spite of the circumstances.
“He escaped with Maddie and Luke, but went back into the jungle to find me.” No matter how angry I am at my father, I need him to respect Indiana. To like him. To understand the sacrifice he made for me, after knowing me for less than a week.
“You have my deepest gratitude,” my father says. “And a standing invitation to our home.”
Holden shoots us all a disdainful look as he stomps past on his way to one of the picnic tables, and my father turns to me with one arched brow. “And Holden is . . . ?”
“History.”
“I can’t say that I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s no secret that he never liked Holden.
“Dad.” I pull him away from the crowd, deeper into the clearing. I’m not ready to talk about his criminal history, but this other family secret—one of them, anyway—can’t wait. “Did Maddie call you?” As mad as I am at him, I don’t want to have to say the words.
“She left a message on my cell. I forgot to give her the new satellite number. Mija, I had no idea David was . . . alive. Much less behind all of this. I’m so sorry he used you. All of you.” His agonized gaze tracks to the left, and I follow his focus to see that two of the men who came here with my father are still standing beneath a tree on the edge of the clearing, where the bright light hanging from one of the lower branches would be shining on them, if someone hadn’t turned off the generator.
99 Lies Page 8