Undercurrents

by Pamela Beason

  She pushed herself up on her bunk. A large cockroach fell off the blanket down near her ankles, landing upside down on the floor with a tiny click. Ugh. She itched all over. Her hair was stiff with salt from yesterday’s adventure; she couldn’t even work her fingers through it. Good thing there was no mirror in the cell.

  But her depressing accommodations now held interesting items: sitting on the floor just inside her cell door was her clothes duffel, a paper sack and covered cup, and most startling of all, her computer case. They gave back her laptop?

  She quickly searched through her belongings. Her cameras were stuffed inside her clothing bag; that was a relief. But there was no phone. Was Schwartz exploring the numbers on the satellite phone? She hoped he called all of them.

  She opened the paper bag. Two stale cinnamon buns. They were better than nothing, and she was especially grateful for the coffee in the cup. It was lukewarm but strong. And she definitely needed strength this morning.

  Why had they given her back the laptop? That would never happen in a U.S. jail. Maybe they worried about accusations of stealing it? The case was clearly marked property of key corporation.

  Maybe they didn’t think she could communicate without the phone connection to the Internet. The loaner from Key Corp had a built-in Wi-Fi receiver. But would there be a wireless network in range? It didn’t seem likely that the Galápagos jail was a hot spot.

  There was no electrical outlet in her cell, which she guessed shouldn’t have been surprising. Sam booted up the laptop, praying the officers hadn’t wiped the hard drive or run the battery down to zero.

  Her normal password screen appeared. She entered her code and was rewarded with the appearance of the browser home screen. The battery power was 89 percent. She immediately opened the network list. Searching . . . the program reported. The battery power drained down to 81 percent as she watched. C’mon, come on!

  Finally, the computer coughed up three nearby wireless networks. Cafenovo was secured so she couldn’t get in without a passcode; but Casa de García and Hotel Milagro were not. She selected the one with the strongest signal: Casa de García. After connecting, her laptop reported the signal as “poor.” Hell, she was grateful to find any connection.

  She didn’t want to rely on email; who knew how long that might take to get delivered? What were the odds . . . she searched through the programs. Yes! Skype was installed. She launched it and typed in Tad Wyatt’s number at Out There. There were geeks at Key who actually slept in their offices. It was not yet 6 A.M. on the U.S. West Coast, but after her failure to report last night, he might be sitting at his desk, fuming and trying to concoct posts for Zing and Wilderness.

  She was right.

  “What the hell is going on? I called you at least ten times,” he answered. “Did someone else die?”

  She snorted. “Well, J.J. and I almost died yesterday, if that counts for anything.”

  “I can barely hear you,” he shouted. “Who’s J.J.?”

  She leaned closer to the laptop’s built-in microphone. “I’m using Skype; they took my phone. J.J.’s the gal who replaced Dan Kazaki. But don’t mention her name anywhere.”

  “Westin, what the hell—”

  “I’m in jail in Puerto Ayora, Tad.” She cut him off. “I got arrested last night.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been charged with Dan Kazaki’s murder.”

  There was a long pause. “Wyatt? Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you. Murder. Jail. Using Skype to call from your laptop.”

  “Yes, but I can’t do it for long. I only have battery power, there’s no outlet in my cell, and a guard could show up at any minute.”

  “Then you better start writing now.”

  “Wyatt! Tad! You’ve got to help me.”

  “Don’t sweat, we’ll think of something. But posting your predicament is your best defense. Do it now.” He broke the connection.

  Unbelievable! Don’t sweat? Easy for him to say.

  She called the U.S. Embassy in Quito. When she told the clerk she’d been arrested, the woman said, “Yes, we have been informed. We are studying the situation.”

  “That’s fantastic. I feel so much better. Thanks for your support.” She was about to click End when the network app reported a lost connection, saving her the trouble.

  Tad Wyatt could be right; maybe posting her story online would be the most useful thing she could do at this point. While the laptop searched for a wireless connection, she typed as fast as she could, describing yesterday’s events and explaining she was being framed.

  Still searching . . . the network app reported. She located her camera cable and downloaded her photos from yesterday so Wyatt could see she’d done her job, even though it seemed slightly lunatic to be worrying about her status as an Internet reporter right now.

  Finally, the laptop reported it had connected to Casa de García again. She uploaded the article and photos.

  What next? She chewed her thumbnail for a few seconds, took another swallow of cold coffee, and then called her home phone number. Blake didn’t answer—he was no doubt still sleeping—but she left him a message. She had no idea what her housemate might do with the information, but she wanted him to know that she might not be back for a while. At least he could feed Simon and pay the utility bills.

  There was still no email from Chase. She checked the headlines for Arizona and the national news. Record snowfall in the Rockies. Multicar collision in fog on the East Coast. Congress deadlocked over budget again. Then—oh God, there it was: shootout in arizona desert leaves two dead and seven wounded. A gun battle between government agents and illegal immigrants and some group called the New American Citizen Army. Two government agents killed, two wounded, one illegal immigrant dead, and five others—unnamed as to what group they belonged to—wounded.

  Two government agents killed. Had Chase been dead all the while she’d been cursing him? Maybe Nicole was dead, too. Or maybe they were only among the wounded? She called Chase’s home number. No answer.

  “Chase,” she began. Her throat closed up as she choked out the only words she needed to say: “Te quiero.” I love you.

  Next, she looked up the number for the FBI office in Salt Lake. “Special Agent Chase Perez, please.”

  “He’s in the field, ma’am. Would you like his voicemail?”

  “No. I’m a personal friend. I really need to know if he’s . . . all right.”

  “I’m connecting you to HR.”

  Human Resources? Was she being handed over to a grief counselor? It was true then, Chase was dead.

  But the woman didn’t seem sympathetic enough to be a counselor. “Which agent are you inquiring about?”

  “Chase—well, Starchaser Perez.”

  “And you are?”

  “Sam Westin. Summer Westin,” she quickly corrected. “He always calls me Summer.”

  “Your voice is fading in and out. Did you say Rae?”

  Who the hell was Rae?

  “Summer! Summer Westin!” she yelled.

  “Oh, sorry. You’re not on Agent Perez’s list of approved personal contacts. I can’t give you any information.” The line went dead.

  Battery power was down to 62 percent. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and searched the Internet for any news containing the words Summer Westin, Zing, or Daniel Kazaki, and turned up an article from the Gazeta Galápagos. In Spanish, of course. She turned the Google translator loose on it.

  The mangled result was hard to parse, but the basic story was that Summer Westin had been arrested for Dr. Daniel Kazaki’s murder, because—what the hell?—Westin was “jealous in attentions of Kazaki to Zing.” There was absolutely no mention of NPF or illegal fishing.

  Crap! She had not only murdered Daniel, but killed him because of a sordid love triangle! And the third person didn’t even exist.

  The situation might be funny if it wasn’t so terrifying. She’d been the first person to report finding Daniel’s bod
y. The fiscalia had her knife. They had her earring. And now she realized that the weird coffee ceremony she’d been subjected to in the station had been designed to collect her fingerprints for the match.

  People were convicted every day on less evidence. She was imprisoned in a foreign country. Her own consulate and embassy were suspicious of what she was up to.

  She didn’t have time to fume. She stood up, smacking her hand against her forehead. Think, think, think—Summer, you idiot, who thought this was going to be a grand vacation—who else might be able to help you? Wyatt already knew. Her father was unreachable in Europe, and what the heck would he do, anyway—pray for her release? She might be able to contact one of her new sisters by marriage—Jane or Julie—but how could they possibly help?

  Finally her mind zeroed in on one acquaintance who might have some clout: Adam Steele, now a big-deal news anchor in California. No doubt he had resources she couldn’t even imagine. Did she dare? Two seconds of staring at the jail cell bars answered that question. Thank God he had never changed his number. She punched it into the Skype on-screen keypad.

  Of course she got his voicemail. Yep, this is the number you called. Tell me who you are and what you want, and I’ll call you back if I want to. She checked her watch—9:40 A.M. here, which meant it was only 6:40 A.M. in California. Surely Adam hadn’t already taken off for work.

  “Adam,” she began, “it’s Sam. I really need your help—”

  “Hi, babe,” Adam broke in. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Sorry.” She laughed weakly. “You’ll never guess where I am, Adam.”

  “Let me give it a shot—in jail in Puerto Ayora, Galápagos?”

  “Great guess.” She blew out a nervous breath. “How’d you know?”

  “Since you never call me first, I’ve got a Google alert set for you. Did you really kill that guy? I mean, I’ve known you to do some crazy shit. Look at that last stunt onstage with the knife and all. But this—well, this kinda takes the proverbial cake. Still, you should have called me.”

  Why had she expected him to be sympathetic? “First—I’ve been sort of busy, Adam. Second—no, I didn’t kill anyone. How could you even think that? Dan Kazaki was my friend. I am being framed.”

  “Interesting,” he said. She could tell he was scribbling notes. “Who’s framing you?”

  She snorted. “There are so many parties in this mix, you wouldn’t believe it. Can you help?”

  “Can you get me an interview with Zing?”

  She laughed bitterly. “Get me out of here, and I’ll get you an exclusive—you can interview the whole damn team. We’ll tell you everything.”

  “You’re fading. Did you say exclusive?”

  “Yes! Zing! Exclusive!” she shouted at the laptop. “After you get me out of here.”

  “Interesting,” he said again. She heard a female voice in the background. Clearly Adam was not sleeping alone.

  “Adam? Can you help? Do you have any pull in Ecuador?” He didn’t respond. “Adam?”

  “Cállate!” yelled one of the men in the next cell. She was shouting, so that no doubt meant “shut up.”

  “I’m thinking, babe. Nothing comes to mind right now. How come Mr. FBI isn’t riding to your rescue?”

  An arrow straight to her heart. Hot tears welled up, blurring her vision. “I can’t find him.”

  Something terrible had happened to Chase, she knew it; otherwise he would be helping. You’re not on his list.

  “The FBI won’t tell me anything,” she said through clenched teeth. Damn it, she was not going to sob on the phone like a child. You owe me, she wanted to wail. “I really am in jail,” she told him, her voice cracking a little. “They’re accusing me of murder.”

  “I believe you.”

  Battery power was down to 40 percent. “I have to go, Adam. I’m almost out of battery power. Please help me.” She was prepared to grovel if she had to.

  “I’ll follow the story. I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll promise the execs an exclusive with you and Zing. But no matter what happens, you’re going to see me again. Believe it. Ciao!” And then the computer reported the signal was lost.

  I’ll follow the story? No matter what happens?

  The clunk of a key turning in the exterior door signaled that she was about to have visitors. She quickly shut down the laptop, slammed the lid closed, and shoved it back into its case. By the time Aguirre and two middle-aged women appeared through the doorway, she was sitting on her bunk.

  The two women carried aluminum-foil-wrapped plates. The trio entered the hallway, but then disappeared from Sam’s sight as they moved to the cell next door. The scent of garlic and baked chicken wafted into her space. There was a clang of a door opening and shutting and quiet conversation in Spanish, and then Aguirre and the two women walked back, empty-handed now. Aguirre didn’t look at Sam, but the women glanced at her over their shoulders before vanishing out of sight. Sam waved at them and swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth. When was her lunch coming?

  The answer turned out to be “never.” Around one thirty she gave up hoping, pawed through her duffel until she found an energy bar she’d packed over a week ago in Bellingham. That was it; that was all the food she had. Maybe her imprisonment would be short; only however long it took to starve to death. At least—assuming that heaven actually existed—she’d get to see her mother and grandmother again. Dan. And maybe . . . Chase.

  She gave in to self-pity and let the tears stream down her face. One of the geckos ran down the wall and across the edge of her bunk, stopping as it neared her leg. The little reptile opened its mouth and bounced its head in a typical lizard threat.

  “You better be scared,” she told it. “I might have to eat you.”

  25

  By mid-afternoon she was terribly thirsty. There was an odd sink arrangement welded to the top of the metal toilet tank. It seemed unsanitary to get drinking water from a faucet attached to a toilet, but clearly that was its intent, so she gingerly filled the paper coffee cup with lukewarm water and drank that.

  The only benefit of being locked up was that she had nothing to do but think about everything that had happened since she’d arrived in the Galápagos. The bad air. The hotel. Eduardo and Papagayo to the rescue. The tourists—forgetful Abigail Birsky with her kind husband Ronald, dour Jerry Roberson, sunny Sandy, grad students Ken and Brandon. The regal Sanderses.

  The beauty of the islands and the reefs. The horror of what was happening behind the scenes. The horrible shark dive at the buoy, Dan’s dead face, the longlined albatross, the threats from Carlos Santos, the shooting of Bergit, the photo of the familiar-seeming brass tag that Elizabeth sent.

  The brass tag! She turned on the laptop to confirm her suspicion about where she’d seen it. And as she stared at the photo she’d taken of the shark massacre at the seamount, Sam suddenly realized where Dan had been killed. And by whom. The truth was worse than anything she had imagined.

  Just around sunset, she heard a low voice outside her window. “Sam! Sam!”

  She stood on her bunk and looked out. Eduardo was at the side of her window, holding a cloth bag and looking hesitantly up, glancing from one cell window to the next. The horse stood behind him, watching curiously.

  “Eduardo!”

  He walked over. “Are you okay?”

  Stupid question. “I’m in jail, Eduardo. How could I be okay?”

  He bent and rummaged in the bag. “I bring food.” He passed a thin foil-wrapped package through the window grid. She eagerly grabbed it and pulled it in, sniffing. A warm tortilla. She unwrapped the foil. There was a thin layer of brown paste inside the coiled tortilla. She bit into it. Beans, onions, and peppers. “Oh jeez, so good. Thank you,” she mumbled through the mouthful.

  Eduardo shoved four more foil cylinders toward her. They just fit within the grid openings, which were around three-quarters of an inch square. He held out a paper-wrapped candy bar, used his fingers to squeez
e it into a longer, narrower shape, and passed it in, too.

  “You’ve obviously done this before,” she observed.

  He shrugged. “In Galápagos, there is no food service in jail.”

  That confirmed one of her fears. She’d read about people having to buy food in foreign jails. “Then what happens to the prisoners?”

  “Their families feed them.”

  That explained the women visiting the men next door.

  “Sometimes the fiscalia let out the prisoners to buy food.”

  “Sometimes?” she asked.

  Eduardo shrugged. “People get out, or they are take to Guayaquil.”

  “Are taken,” she said sternly.

  “Taken,” he repeated. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t want to think about being taken anywhere. She bit off another piece of tortilla and bean paste. “Did the all the people on the tour leave today?”

  “We say good-bye this morning.”

  “J.J. too?”

  “She get—got—on the airport bus with the others.”

  So much for her expectation that J.J. would do battle with the local authorities. Sam didn’t blame the woman for getting the hell out of Dodge, but she prayed that J.J. hadn’t already crossed Summer Westin off as another martyr to the cause. Surely J.J. was in Guayaquil or Quito, pressuring the authorities to release her. She had to believe that, or she’d go crazy.

  “You know I’ve been charged with Daniel’s murder?”

  The horse nuzzled Eduardo’s arm. He turned and stroked its muzzle. “I know.”

  “How can this be happening, Eduardo?”

  He focused on the horse, rubbing its forehead.

  “Did you notice that Abigail Sanders was losing her memory?”

  Eduardo momentarily looked startled, but then recovered and said, “She have the Alzheimer’s. Ronald tells me.”

  “She called Constantino Maxim, and she called me Sandy.”

  “Poor lady.”

  “And when I asked where you were the morning that Dan disappeared, she told me you were with the group. She called you “such a nice young man.”