by Lucia Sinn
Out of the corner of her eye, Julie saw puffs of dust on the road.
She gripped his arm. “Want to earn 10,000 colones?”
“I don’t know.” He stepped back, his dark eyes blinking rapidly. “What would I have to do?”
“Those men you see coming, they’re going to ask if you’ve seen me. Tell them I started climbing the volcano, even though you begged me not to. Pretend you’re alarmed.”
“But why would I tell them such a thing?” He glanced at a framed picture on the counter—a tiny woman in a bright pink dress surrounded by stair-step children.
“Because they’re bad men. Trying to bother me. I have to get rid of them.”
The guide’s eyes shifted from side to side like a pitcher on the mound. Julie held her breath, afraid he’d turn her down. But her offer was too tempting. He held out his hand. “The money, please.”
She pulled a wad of bills from her bag. “Here’s half of it now. When they leave, I’ll give you the rest. And be sure you tell them it’s dangerous, that they could be burned if they try to go up there.” She looked around for a place to hide—the women’s rest room, maybe. But there were no facilities, only the small refreshment stand.
“You can wait in there,” he motioned to a small office. “I’ll tell you when they’ve gone.”
She darted inside and sank down on the hard cement floor just as the car came to a stop several yards away. She heard Carlos speaking in rapid Spanish, asking what had happened to the tall American woman in the Jeep.
“I saw her,” the guide told them. “She went in that direction, up the side of the volcano. Very dangerous.”
“Not dangerous for you, Amigo. Go and bring her back here, now.”
“Sorry. I’m not allowed to leave.”
“That so?” she heard Cody say, “Well, I guess you will leave.”
“Please, you’re hurting me.” Julie peeked outside and saw Cody pressing the long silver blade of his knife against the man’s neck.
Carlos said: “You know the paths up there and where she went. If you don’t want your throat slit, you’ll help us find her.”
The guide’s composure wilted and his eyes widened. Chilling memories burst into Julie’s consciousness: Kevin’s twisted head, David’s water soaked face. She couldn’t stand to see another man die. She hid the gun on a shelf under the counter and walked out with her hands up. “ Leave him alone!” she said.
Carlos glared at her. “Where’s the money?”
“It’s in the bank,” she said. “In San Jose.”
Cody stepped forward and slapped her face with the back of his hand. She hit the ground, seeing stars, tasting blood. “You’d better be telling the truth,” he said, “and I want it all.”
Julie lifted her head from the dirt. “Everything I have is there,” she said. “You can look at my bank book.”
“Where is it?”
“In the car, in my backpack.”
Cody yanked her up by her hair and laid the knife blade across her throat. He motioned to Carlos.
“Get the backpack. There’d better be $60,000, and don’t pull any shit this time.”
Carlos brought her the backpack and held a gun to her head. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the zipper, but the two men made no move to help her. It was obvious they were enjoying the sight of blood running down her chin.
“There wasn’t nearly that much money,” she insisted, “Here’s my bank balance.”
Cody looked at the bankbook. “I can’t tell what it says. I don’t know foreign money.” He handed the bankbook to Carlos.
Carols grabbed the book and squinted. It occurred to Julie that he might be too nearsighted to read the small figures—not something a macho man would care to admit. Her suspicions were confirmed when he gave the book back to her without a second glance. “What difference does it make? Whatever’s there, we’re going to get it. You’ll be coming with us, now.”
“With you? But what about the car? It’s a rental. I can’t just leave it.” Inexplicably, all Julie could think about were the tennis shoes and baby clothes that wouldn’t be delivered. That seemed more important than the car itself.
“That’s your problem,” Cody said.
“Wait a minute. The roads are terrible. My jeep is much better riding than that tin can you’ve rented.”
Cody had no trouble deciding. “You’re right. My butt’s sore from that pile of junk. We’ll be back in Indy before they know we’ve left it here. He motioned to Carlos. “Get the stuff out of our car.”
Julie leaned against the cement wall and closed her eyes. She was sure they would take her back to San Jose without too much hassle. They were far too anxious to get their money. But what would happen then?
*
The volcano rumbled, echoing the tremulous feeling in the pit of Julie’s stomach. Suddenly there was an explosion. Then another. It was a sound she remembered from her childhood, when she’d played in the woods near her grandfather’s farm. Hunters. Their gunshots had terrified her cousins and they’d always taken off running across the creek, through the cornfields, and up the hill to the barn.
“Get inside!” Cody yelled, pushing Julie into the refreshment stand. The whites of his eyes were crisscrossed with red veins. “Somebody’s shooting at us.”
Carlos dropped out of sight. Another shot rang out, and then silence fell like a stone. Carlos’ face appeared above the car just before he darted across the parking lot and staggered inside, grasping his arm. “I’ve been hit,” he cried. “Someone’s got an assault rifle.”
Cody grabbed the guide by his shirt collar. “What the hell’s going on?” he yelled. “Who is it?”
“Bandits,” the guide responded, with a grim expression on his face. “They think you’re rich American tourists.”
Carlos stared at the dark blood gushing down over his purple tattoo.
“Gimmie a towel,” he demanded.
“Sorry, Senor. I don’t have a towel.”
“He doesn’t have a towel,” Julie repeated. She was feeling calmer.
“Then give me your damn shirt before I bleed to death.”
Wordlessly, the guide removed his shirt and handed it to Carlos, who pressed it against his arm with a grimace. All the bravado was gone now; rivulets of sweat ran down his face as he looked out into the fog.
Cody paced like a caged animal and pushed the guide out the door.
“Ask them what they want,” Carlos said.
The guard called out “What do you want from us?”
“The woman! We want the woman.”
Julie’s knees buckled. She was going to be kidnapped.
“Please,” she begged, “don’t let them take me. You won’t get your money without me. They’ll take me up the mountains and hold me for ransom, they’ll probably kill me.”
The shirt against Carlos’ arm was saturated a deep red. “I’m gonna bleed to death,” he whined. “Let’s get out of here.” He turned to the guide. “Tell them she’s coming out.”
While Cody looked away, Julie reached under the counter.
“We’re making a run for it,” Cody said. “You’re going with us.”
Julie pulled out the gun and raised it in the air with both hands. Cody’s eyes widened. He reached for her arm just as several shots came through the open window and ricocheted off the cash register. Cody ducked his head, giving her a chance to run out the door. She still had a few shots left and she’d take her chances with the bandits.
“Let’s get out of here,” Carlos cried.
The men raced to their car, started the motor, and drove away.
Julie moved back inside, waiting to confront the bandits. She scanned the horizon where the silhouettes of two figures emerged from the fog.
They were a mismatched pair, one thin and no more than five foot, the other as large as an American, stocky and—something familiar about that lazy walk. Then she recognized the smaller one. She ran outside and cried, “you! I know you.
”
“Si, Senorita.”His mouth stretched into a gummy smile.
“You sell cigars at the Gran Hotel. I saw you that day with Bud.”
“Si.” He looked up at his companion who was removing his helmet, revealing a tangled mat of sandy hair.
Flooded with relief, Julie cried out. “Bud! Oh my God, what are you doing up here?”
Deep dimples formed in Bud’s cheeks. “I might ask the same of you.”
Julie’s mind was stuck on freeze frame as she tried to make sense of Bud’s sudden appearance. “You saved my life. But why?”
Bud said: “I need to talk with you.”
“What is there to talk about? What difference does all of this make to you?”
“Look,” he put his arm around her shoulder. “You’ve had a scare and you’re all shaky.”
“I have a tendency to get that way that when I’m terrified,” she said dryly.
“I understand. Now, why don’t you follow me and my pal for a few miles? I know a little place in the mountains where you can settle down, have a cold drink. Then we can talk.”
Julie hesitated. Should she trust them? Maybe it was just another trap and she should try to make a run for it again. But run where? “All right,” she agreed, “you lead the way.”
Again they wound their way up and down narrow dirt roads, the acrid smell of fertilizer from the coffee plantations growing stronger. Julie knew it was what made the fields and hillsides green with important crops, but right now she found it nauseating. Bud came to a stop at the top of a mountain. She covered her bikini with shorts and a T-shirt and got out. A pathway lined with orchids led to a small wooden building in a dense thicket of trees and foliage. The inside smelled of pineapple, papaya and the inevitable gallo pinto.
The proprietors—a couple who looked to be in their twenties—came forward to embrace Bud. A small boy with a runny nose rushed out and grabbed his leg. Bud whooped and lifted the child, burying his face in a mass of dark curls.
The small wooden tables were grimy, with flies buzzing around on sticky spots. Bud ordered bottles of Heineken for everyone. The beer warmed Julie’s stomach and she drank it quickly, aware that Bud was scrutinizing her every move. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get serious. What kind of trouble are you in?”
“What makes you think I’m in trouble?”
“First off, why did you tell me your name was Stephanie Talbot?”
“How do you know it isn’t?”
“Because that’s not the name on your passport and you told Nellie your name was Julie.”
“You followed me from Indy,” she said. “I should have known when they stopped the plane. You have to be someone important.”
“Well, I have an important job, I guess you’d say.”
“Why so?”
Bud frowned and peeled the label off his beer. In the back room, Julie could hear the boy crying and women trying to soothe him. This wasn’t just a restaurant, it was a family home—a family that Bud seemed to know well. She ached with loneliness and nostalgia at the memory of her own lost childhood.
The late afternoon sun cast a yellow glow upon Bud’s face, outlining the hook of his nose, the determined thrust of his jaw. In his almond-shaped eyes Julie saw a wariness she hadn’t noticed before. His usual slumping shoulders were now square and rigid; something about him had changed. He looked up at the mountains, pressing the tips of his fingers together.
“I work for a government agency,” he said.
”I thought you were some kind of salesman. I mean, you talked about playing golf at the Cariari.”
Bud set his bottle down and fixed his eyes on her. “Let’s quit fooling around, he said. “Tell me why you’re headed for the border.”
There was a roaring in Julie’s ears, like the distant pounding of the surf. “The border? You think I’m going to Nicaragua? That I’m a smuggler?”
Bud jabbed a thumb toward the door. “What do you have in that jeep?”
“Wait just a minute,” she said. “Assuming you really are some kind of government agent, this isn’t the U.S. and you have no reason to be questioning me.”
“You’re right,” he said. “This isn’t the US. The rules are up in the air. But it will be better for you if you co-operate.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Julie was floating in a sea of unreality. She’d thought of Bud as a lightweight without much ambition beyond golf and drinking beer. Before her now sat a stern judge who seemed ready to convict.
Bud’s grim expression didn’t change. “Take it whatever way you like. I’d like you to tell me what’s in that car and where you’re going with it.”
Julie reached for a drink, knocking over a half-full bottle in the process. Beer dribbled down between her legs, and she wiped it with a small paper napkin before springing to her feet. “Come with me this minute,” she said, “I suppose you think I’ve got shiploads of dope or something.”
“You said it, I didn’t.” Bud shrugged, following her to the car.
She yanked open the hatch and pulled the blankets off the boxes. “Help yourself,” she said, with a wave of her hand.
Bud opened the boxes and picked up several pairs of tennis shoes. “Where are you headed with these?” he asked.
“Up to Santa Clara. I know a doctor there who has some poor patients.”
Bud didn’t respond. With the deftness of a customs inspector, he pulled out a pocketknife and began slashing at the sole of a pink tennis shoe decorated with pictures of Minnie Mouse.
Julie tugged at his arm. “Why are you cutting up these shoes?”
“Just checking.” He picked up another shoe—this one black, with thick white soles and ties.
“Please,” Julie said. “Don’t ruin everything in the hope of finding that I’m a drug dealer. Just come with me and see where these things are going.”
Bud let the pocketknife fall to his side and stepped back, shaking his head slowly. “Julie,” he said. “If you are what you say what you are, you’ll be one of a kind.”
“I don’t know about that. But I want you to see a way that certain money might actually help some needy people, instead of getting swallowed up by bureaucracies.”
Bud plucked a pink hibiscus blossom, rubbing it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. He looked up at the sky where a mauve twilight was settling down over the mountains and the cicadas had begun their vibrant chorus. “I’m willing to listen,” he said. “But I’m warning you that others know where I am.”
Julie said, “This isn’t a trap. You won’t need that assault rifle.”
“I want to believe you. Really I do. But I think I’ll send my friend back to his family. Just in case.”
“Then you will come?”
“I’m probably going to be sorry, but yes.” Bud climbed into the seat beside her after asking his friends in the restaurant to look after his motorcycle.
On the way to Santa Clara, Julie explained to Bud about the baby. How Oscar had been born to a young girl from a poverty-stricken family. “These little things,” she explained, “These simple clothes and tennis shoes could change their lives for the better. Don’t you understand that?”
“I might.”
“You’ve told me you’re bi-lingual. Dual citizenship. Surely, you have some sympathy. How can you work against your own people?” Julie asked.
“I am what I have to be.”
“So you don’t love anyone, care for anyone. Have no loyalties whatsoever to any country or anyone but yourself?”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re any different? Cut it out Julie, you still haven’t told me why you left Lewiston in the middle of the night. And now you’re running around all over Costa Rica with a car full of shoes.”
“For your information, I was witness to a murder.”
Bud kept his eyes straight ahead. “Which murder are you talking about?”
“What do you mean, which murder?” Julie felt herself breaking out in a cold
sweat.
“The one up at Guanacaste or the one in Lewiston.” His voice was flat, emotionless.
Her foot went slack on the accelerator, but they were going downhill, so their speed didn’t change. “Are you talking about David?” she gasped. “Are you telling me he didn’t drown?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Oh, God!” Julie stepped on the brake, jerking the jeep to a halt. “How do you know about David?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Rage surged through her body. “So you had him following me, pretending he had a crush on me, and I was dumb enough to believe it.” She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. “Is it my fault that he drowned?
Bud’s tone softened. “David was attracted to you, right from the first, and I’m not blaming you for what happened. Someone may have found out about our connection. We’ll never know whether or not it was truly an accident. But this other murder—this guy in Lewiston.”
“Don’t tell me you know all about that?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I suppose you’re accusing me of having a hand in that one, too.”
“No, I’m not. But you’ve made it worse for yourself by coming down here. You should go back home and get this whole thing straightened out.”
Julie shifted uncomfortably, aware of the sticky beer between her legs. “I’d like to know just exactly who you’re working for. CIA? FBI?”
“None of the above.
“What, then?”
“I’m a consultant. That’s all I can tell you. Officially, I’m in the import-export business.”
“Out of Indy?”
“Yes. I go back and forth a lot. I told you, my mother lives there. Besides, I enjoy the relative sanity and civility of the Midwest.”
“There’s nothing for me back home,” she said.
“What about your mother? You must have been close.”
“Yeah, but I was supposed to live up to my potential. Instead, as of last month, I was a part time waitress living in my stepfather’s house.”