Say Your Goodbyes

by Linda Ladd

  Seeking help from local villagers wasn’t a great move, either. They would most likely be dirt poor and turn him in for a few pesos. More likely, they’d be petrified to help an American that mysteriously walked out of the jungle out in the middle of nowhere. But he did have one advantage—the best one possible. He had an old friend in the area. A good friend. At least, he hoped to hell his contact was still viable. Better be, because that was probably his only chance to escape the killer.

  The morning finally dawned, the sun like a laser beam slicing into his tired eyes. He kept paddling up the river. Soon the sun was bright and hot, broiling down, burning into Novak’s bare head. Isabella had pretty much stayed curled up on the bottom of the canoe, still terrified, or at least that was what she wanted him to think. At the moment, she was nothing but a giant albatross hanging around his neck, a dead weight slowing him down and complicating his every move. Their pursuer said he was after her; just turn her over and all would be well. Yeah, right. Novak had no illusions about the outcome of that scenario. The killer would take him out, too, the minute he got the opportunity. Truth was, Isabella, or whoever the hell she really was, held the key to everything that had gone down since Novak had laid eyes on her.

  The banks along the stream began to rise higher, with some rock cliffs appearing, everything, everywhere, thick with dark green vegetation and mountains of vines smothering the tree limbs. The water ran deeper now, with swift, swirling currents out in the middle. A town had to crop up soon, he was pretty sure. Half an hour later, he picked up the sound of traffic passing along a road. Then they slid around a hairpin bend in the river, and there it was. Civilization. Up ahead maybe half a mile was a nice modern bridge. A car was passing over it, an old Nissan sedan, white, dirty, and moving slow. It passed a small gray Dodge minivan going in the opposite direction.

  Scanning the right bank for a suitable place to beach the canoe, he brought them in close, anxious to get off the water for good and blend in to the thick bushes before they were noticed by the locals. A weedy slough showed up at one edge of a sandbar, and he paddled the canoe straight into it until it slid to a stop on the sand. He wasn’t kidding himself. He looked rough now, face covered with dark stubble, clothes ripped and filthy and wet, arms and face scratched up and dirty and insect-bitten, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Isabella looked worse. All that, plus she appeared scared and ill. The two of them together would stick out to any onlooker, and he would especially cause concern. His height alone was a problem, along with the girl’s obvious terror at anything and everything that moved. People would think she was his captive, and that would get him thrown in jail. So he had to proceed with caution. Nothing looked good. Nothing was going to get much better, either.

  Novak helped the girl out of the canoe, glad she wasn’t crying anymore. But she looked awful, like a young, pitiful waif, and that wouldn’t do, not when traveling with him. She instantly crumpled down on her knees in the wet sand and watched him drag the canoe back into the bushes. He held the rifle in one hand, loath to leave any firepower behind. But he would definitely be noticed if he was carrying a long gun around with them. Authorities would be called, for sure. He had the fully loaded Ruger and the Glock that he could carry concealed. Reluctantly, he placed the rifle in the bottom of the canoe and quickly covered it with tree branches and debris. He had a feeling the killer would know the best places to beach a canoe, every bit as well as Novak did. He grabbed the killer’s knapsack and hunkered down beside the girl. She looked up at him and tried to look brave. Didn’t come off so well. She looked sick. He hoped she wasn’t.

  “Okay, listen, Isabella. You’re doing just fine. But we’ve got to keep moving now, and you’ve got to try to forget what happened to you last night. If we run into anybody, you’ve got to act like nothing’s wrong. If you can’t do that, I’m gonna have to leave you out here with the canoe and come back for you …”

  “No! No, please, don’t leave me out here alone! I’ll do better, I promise. I’m okay, I am.” She pushed up on wobbly feet to prove it.

  “Okay, good. But you have to do exactly what I say, because we’re gonna start running into people and they’re gonna think you’re my victim, that I kidnapped you or abused you, or something bad like that. You start crying and acting all terrified, it’s over. Can you pull it together, or not?”

  Isabella nodded, enough so that Novak halfway believed her.

  “First off, we both need to clean up a little bit. Get as much of this dirt and mud off us as we can. I’m going to give you my shirt to hide your bruises, because whoever sees us will sure as hell think I’ve been beating you up.”

  “I’ll tell them you didn’t! I’ll make them believe me!”

  “No. I don’t want you to say anything. Just stay quiet and follow my lead. I’m going to have to come up with a story that fits our situation, okay? You smile when I smile. Frown if I frown. Can you do that? Say nothing, and try not to look afraid.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you sure you can do that? Tell me if you think you’re going to go to pieces.”

  She nodded firmly enough for him to believe she would probably try her best and fail miserably. But he had no choice. Despite what he’d told her, he couldn’t leave her out on the riverbank. Not alone, that was for damn sure. Even if he left her a weapon, she wouldn’t last ten minutes, not if she was accosted by a practiced killer.

  Novak looked around, scoped out the river, and made sure the coast was clear. Then they waded out into the stream, knee deep, and washed their faces and arms as best they could. Novak pulled his shirt off over his head and handed it to her. The white T-shirt he had on underneath had noticeable bloodstains, so he tried to wash the blood out and then left it hanging out over his pants to hide his weapons. He watched her slip the T-shirt over her head and poke her arms through the sleeves. She stood up and it hung past her knees. But it did hide most of the bruises and scratches. She finger-combed her hair and braided it tight again, and began to look fairly okay. She looked very young and vulnerable without any makeup on her face. They started down a footpath that skirted the river. Novak was headed up to the road, where a couple more cars had passed over the bridge.

  The bridge looked relatively new. It seemed familiar to him. He stared at it, and after a moment, he was pretty sure he knew where they were. Novak had crossed over that bridge several times, and once, a long time ago, at night, seriously wounded, and hidden in the back of a truck. If he wasn’t mistaken, he now believed that they had just come up the Rio Hondo, which was the river that formed the border between Mexico and Belize. That would put them on the Mexican side. That would also mean there were border stations on either side of the bridge, something he needed to avoid. So he moved away from the riverbank and led Isabella through the more dense jungle terrain, past where he estimated the border station would be. They climbed up a rocky, litter-strewn hill and found right off that the road did not lead to some little village. It led to a large, busy Yucatan city. Novak figured it must be the city called Chetumal. Heartened at his first stroke of good luck all day, Novak breathed in relief. This was the best news Novak had gotten since he had awoken from his own troubled nightmare and gotten himself involved in Isabella’s real-life one. They took off down the side of the tarmac road toward loud traffic sounds, their path shaded by some big banyan trees.

  Novak did not want to be noticed, but he would be. He always was. Whoever the killer behind them really was, he would no doubt be intelligent enough to figure that Novak would head to the nearest town and lose himself in the hustle and bustle there. The man would also know they would head there to find help or report his crimes. They kept walking. After twenty minutes, they happened upon a black metal road sign that read CHETUMAL, POBLACIÓN: 150,000. He’d been right. The bigger the city, the better he could hide. He knew Chetumal fairly well, had been there several months at one time. It was at the extreme southern tip of Quintana Roo province and situated on the sea: more excellent news.
As was the fact that American cruise ships docked there, so Americans would be a regular sight walking on the streets, tall and short, big and little. So all he needed now was a place to hide out, a phone that worked, and his friend being willing and available to pick them up and give them shelter.

  Once up on the main road, Novak kept a close eye on the passing cars, glad that traffic was sparse. He finally saw what he’d been looking for, a slow tourist bus rattling down the road behind them. It was packed with people, probably visitors and shoppers coming up from Belize. Two young boys rode on the roof, holding on to the luggage racks. Novak walked out to the side of the road. The bus began to slow about thirty yards short of them, braked with a low squeal, and stopped dead in the road. A few moments later, the driver released the brake and rolled toward them.

  Novak turned to Isabella. “When he gets here, let me do the talking. If he lets us get on board, don’t say anything to anybody. Don’t look at anybody. I’m going to tell him that our boat capsized on the river and we’re trying to get back to our hotel.”

  “I’ll do good. I promise.”

  Novak didn’t place much credence in her promises, but he watched the bus ease up and stop, with the passenger doors right in front of them. The driver operated the lever and the door slid open. “Hey, thanks for stopping. Think we can get a ride back to our hotel, señor? Our boat capsized back there on the river, and we lost everything. I’ve got money. I can pay.”

  The driver looked Novak over pretty good. He was an older man, hard to tell what age he was. Maybe late sixties or early seventies, but he looked more like ninety-nine. His face was wizened, sun-browned to a deep reddish bronze, and heavily lined. He wore a white Houston Astros baseball cap with a silver logo. Long gray hair secured in a ponytail stuck out through the back of the cap. He had on a blue-and-orange plaid island shirt covered with orchids and umbrellas and flamingoes. Looked like he’d come from Miami.

  The driver shrugged and motioned them aboard. A trusting sort. Isabella suddenly decided to assume a different and sunshiny persona. No more sobs, no poor-me moans, no more looking as if she was going to faint any second. It was all replaced by a bright and noticeably phony smile. On the other hand, she looked young and helpless and innocent, a kid who needed to be picked up by a nice old bus driver and let off at her hotel, not the least bit threatening to anybody. Novak, on the other hand, looked exactly like what he was, a big tough guy who just might beat the crap out of the old man and steal the bus. He smiled and tried to look friendly.

  Isabella climbed inside and found them a seat near the front. There were lots of people along the aisle. Most of them held shopping bags and luggage on their laps and on the floor between the seats. The bus rolled off again, with a series of creaks and squeaky brakes. Isabella stared out the window as if enraptured by the jungle’s beauty.

  They were off the river, and thank God for that. They sped along on the road, and the passengers behind them chattered in Spanish and laughed and had a good time, unaware that a serial killer could stop the bus at any moment and kill them all. The bus drove on. Novak watched the road behind them, not sure what he was looking for. As they neared some little town on the outskirts, the driver turned off onto a four-lane highway. Now they were headed into the city of Chetumal. It had an airport, which might come in handy, and lots of American businesses, including Walmart and Sam’s Club and McDonald’s. It was a pretty place. Novak had halfway enjoyed his time there but had never been back.

  Novak kept his eyes peeled for a good place for them to lay low and wait for the cavalry to arrive. After a while, they passed a square concrete-block building painted orange-red, like it was operated by demons from hell. The sign read MORAN HOTEL. Reminded him of an old Clint Eastwood movie he’d seen once, where Clint had made some cowardly townsfolk paint the whole town red, every single building. Then he called the place Hell. Novak couldn’t recall the name of the movie. Novak liked Eastwood. But there was no real cover at the Moran, so he bided his time.

  A little farther down the road, in the distance, he caught sight of a place that might be more suitable. The sign said THE HOTEL LAGUNA ENCANTADA. It was built very close to the road, the door almost opening on to the street. It was a long, rectangular white concrete building with a row of arched windows across the front. It looked severe and plain, like a giant German D-Day bunker with fancy windows. They passed a sign advertising another hotel right next to it but with a slightly different name: HOTEL LAGOON. Or maybe it was all the same place. Novak couldn’t tell.

  There was a curved decorative wall with a nice sign on the right side of the bunker hotel. Both backed up to a big lake called the Lagoon Encantada. He liked the idea of the walled courtyard surrounding the Hotel Lagoon. Some sort of Mexican party was going on inside. The bus windows gave him a mere glimpse of the festivities, but he could see people dressed in native costumes, women twirling around in brightly colored skirts, children running wild, and he could hear a mariachi band playing. It looked crowded, and maybe a little bit drunken. The tequila was flowing in there, no doubt about it, but that sounded damn good to Novak. He missed being drunk at the moment. More important, everybody there was concentrating on having a fun day and would not notice a stranger and his bedraggled young companion.

  “This is it,” he called out to the driver as they reached the road that led back into the Lagoon Hotel. He slid out of the seat and stepped back and allowed Isabella to precede him to the front door. Isabella stepped down in front of him, and Novak stopped beside the driver and dug out way too many of the pesos that he’d stolen from the dead guards. The driver seemed pleased at the overpayment, no doubt thinking the stupid American didn’t understand the currency.

  Once they were standing on the side of the road opposite the hotel, the bus rumbled off. Nobody else had gotten off, everybody headed into the city for fun and games. Novak scanned the road behind them. The killer was coming. Getting closer all the time. Long-nurtured instincts told Novak to burrow in somewhere and keep his head down.

  Isabella stood quietly at his side, listening to the loud singing and music coming over the wall of the hotel. They could hear the guitars and violins and people laughing. Then she actually looked up at Novak and smiled happily, as if they hadn’t just trekked through bloody corpses and evaded the assassin from hell. “Hey, Señor Novak, maybe we could go back there where the music is and have some fun, no?”

  “No. Hell, no. We’re going in there but we’re not gonna have fun.”

  Isabella pouted. Disappointed. Thought he was an old fogy. He guessed she wanted to kick up her heels while waiting to get her throat cut from ear to ear. Novak wondered if she maybe had a little mental deficiency, had been slow in school, maybe. Then he wondered where all her heartfelt terror had gone. Now she acted downright comfortable with their state of affairs and at peace with the world. Maybe she thought they were home free now that they were out of the jungle and among people again. But they weren’t. Nowhere close.

  Novak was more concerned with her quicksilver turns of personality. Hell, he was still on edge, and he’d worked covert missions for years. His distrust of the girl ballooned into full-fledged wariness. This young woman was not who she said she was. He felt it in his gut, and had from the beginning. He also had a feeling that whatever she wasn’t telling him was going to get him killed. His only hope was that he could reach his contact and get the hell out of the country. So he had to bide his time and keep a close eye on Isabella. Novak took her by the arm and led her across the street. They walked through the gate into the Hotel Lagoon. Novak was more than worried about what she was hiding and if he would end up on a slab at the morgue before he found out.

  Novak tried to get his bearings. He knew they had climbed aboard the bus right before it turned onto the four-lane paved highway, called Avenida Mexico con Calle Heroes, and that had brought them this far. If he recalled, the highway would take them into the suburbs and then into the city center of Chetumal. The other time, he�
��d been taken to a safe house, sick and shot up, but he’d gotten help and had been nursed back to health before he was extracted for his next mission. That’s how he had known about the customs checkpoints on both sides of the Hondo. Chetumal was big and modern, a busy seaport, and one hell of a good place to disappear. He hadn’t wanted to take a bus all the way into the city. The distant outskirts were a better bet: sparsely populated, sporadic buildings (many of which looked abandoned and ramshackle and ready to fall down), scrub trees, trashy vacant lots amid the ever-encroaching jungle. Some homes with clotheslines hung with freshly washed garments, small children playing in the yards who stopped and watched the traffic roll on by to better places. Not far back, they’d passed a hamburger joint, of all things, and a small Catholic church. He had seen a sign pointing down a side road to a grocery store. So they had definitely reached the land of the living again.

  Inside the walls, the festival got louder. Novak just wanted to get inside the hotel, unseen and unnoticed. It was a small place back by the lagoon, and he hoped there was a room available. He took hold of Isabella again and avoided the lobby. He led her instead through a paved courtyard with a fountain. It was deserted, everybody out at the festival, living the good life. He wanted a room facing the party and a view of the incoming road.

  The fountain tinkled prettily and the shade felt good to his burned skin. He headed for the side door. He found a dusky back hallway just inside, with a terra-cotta tile floor and the smell of enchiladas hanging in the air. Smelled good to Novak. He was hungry. They walked down the hall and found a wood counter with a short man standing behind it, watching the dancers through the window. He was smoking a brown cigarette that smelled terrible. When he turned, Novak looked at the name embroidered on his white shirt. Antonio.