“Hey,” he said grimly.
Feeling the awkwardness, Wara didn’t respond. After the emotional encounter of last night, she didn’t know what to say. If his story were true, it made more sense how he could actually believe God would support killing a man like Franco Salazar. But the truth was, Wara still didn’t feel as if she could trust Alejo Martir at all. He could change personalities in an instant, one minute serious and morose, the next charming and convincing, seemingly able to manipulate anyone into doing what he wanted. She wasn’t about to trust his story about Salazar until she had talked with the Martirs and confirmed some facts. Wara threw off the covers and headed for the bathroom in Alexis’ wrinkled sweat pants and wombat shirt.
When she came out of the bathroom, he was waiting, pacing by the window, staring down at the alley outside. “Could you come over to the other room?” he asked. “We really need to talk about some stuff.”
“Ok.” Wara shrugged. She felt a little better than yesterday, after a quick shower. Soaking off the dried blood had hurt a lot, and she had washed her face without looking in the mirror, afraid of what she would see. Alejo had got her some ibuprofen, but she still felt like some foreign object was lodged on her face, twice the size of her own nose. At least the throbbing had died down.
Fighting the depression, Wara trudged after Alejo to the hall and the Martirs’ door. It was cracked open, and Alejo pushed the deadbolt into place after they slipped inside.
“Dad.” Alejo’s voice sounded unnatural saying the word. “Can you come here for a second? I need to run this by you.”
Pablo Martir looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night and he was staring out the window at the mountains. “Alright,” he said, and he and his son moved to one of the beds in the corner, each cautiously sitting down at the furthest extremes possible and beginning a hushed, strained conversation.
Wara plopped down on a bed next to Nazaret and Noly at the other side of the room. The kids were huddled on the beds, munching half-heartedly on cheesy empanada pastries and sipping chocolate milk from flimsy plastic cups. The thought of food made Wara want to gag. “Have you heard any more news?” she asked Nazaret’s mom.
She was terrified they might have heard more news. As long as there was no news, there was still hope.
Noly yawned and covered her mouth with one hand. “No,” she said, and Wara closed her eyes in relief. “I made a call really early—from the street, of course. Alejandro says no cell phones. The Bennesons from your mission say they still haven’t identified the body of any foreigners. So far, the confirmed dead are a government guy from Cochabamba and three of his staff: two women and one man.”
She was so glad they hadn’t found Noah. Dead. But a pang came along with it, because those people who died had been on the bus with her. Shed seen them whispering and laughing as they got on the bus. When Noah decided to get on his knees in the aisle and give her the ring, the people in the back had clapped. She searched for the right words, and finally said, “I made Alejo tell me why he did what he did. He was trying to kill the man who used to be mayor of Quillacollo. He said that you guys used to know him.”
“Ah.” Noly’s eyes grew sad, and she glanced over at Nazaret. “Franco Salazar?”
“Yeah,” Wara nodded, snatching a watermelon bubble gum from the bedside table and popping it in her mouth. Her body seemed to float inches above the bed, and she felt a desperate need for the sugar. “Alejo said that Franco Salazar was involved in all kinds of horrible stuff. And that he killed a friend of his from when they were little—Ruben.”
Nazaret’s face went pale. “I just heard last night. I mean, I remember when little Ruben died, but I didn’t know…”
“She didn’t know anything about Salazar possibly being involved,” Noly murmured. “That part of our history is a painful memory that marked our lives forever. The kids were so young they didn’t know what was really going on. Her father told her last night, because Salazar came up when he was talking with Alejo.” Noly pointed her chin towards Nazaret, who looked conflicted. “Did he tell you we didn’t report what happened to Ruben?”
Wara rolled her eyes and nodded, waiting for Noly to say that idea was ridiculous. But instead, Noly’s eyes crinkled as she said, “We’ve regretted that decision, made out of pride and reluctance to lose our place in the community, ever since.”
Wara was stunned. She blinked and turned her head towards Alejo, deep in discussion with his father.
“Alejo ran the day Ruben was found dead, just after he turned fourteen,” Noly continued, swallowing hard and swiping at mascara running down one cheek. “It took years for us to understand how wrong we were. We started the children’s center in Villa Candelaria to try to repent, somehow. It’s all true, Wara. I know why he wanted Salazar dead.”
Wara was still in a daze when Alejo’s voice cut into their conversation. “You guys are involved with the Children’s Center in Villa Candelaria? I’m…surprised. And glad. I’ve heard of that place---it’s famous all over the country. I just didn’t know…that you were involved.”
“We are, son,” Pastor Martir said from behind him, and Alejo nodded slowly, seemingly confused by this new development.
“I talked with…Dad,” Alejo said. The word still seemed to taste bitter in his mouth. “He thinks it would be good for you all to try to go to the United States. To visit Aunt Wendy. I have plenty of money, and I’m going to go get as much as I can out of the bank now, before you go.”
Alejo’s family all stared at him with expressions of disbelief that clearly said: Go? You mean like right now?
“Won’t they be watching the bank? All your buddies?” Wara demanded, imagining Gabriel and scary Benjamin staking out the bank with rifles from a crumbling apartment window across the street.
Alejo shook his head. “There are ten branches of my bank here in Cochabamba, and they don’t have enough manpower to watch all of them at the same time. Today I can get enough to take care of you all for quite awhile, and the rest is in a Cayman Islands account only I have access to. I’ll get all that to you later.”
Pastor Martir stood frowning at his son, burly arms crossed in front of his chest. Alejo grunted and turned to Wara. “None of the family have passports, except Dad. I want to see if the U.S. will give them visas and put them in protection, in exchange for the information I have. We also need to let the embassy know you’re alive.”
He took Wara back to their room, and Alejo dialed the embassy number on a brand-new cell phone he had picked up across the street. Wara took another handful of Ibuprofen from the bedside table and forced herself to sip water while Alejo talked with someone for quite a long time. By his frustrated expression, Wara could tell the conversation didn’t go well.
“So?” she asked as he punched the End button a little too hard and slammed a fist into the bedpost.
“They agree with you,” Alejo scowled at the little gray phone. “I don’t think they bought most of what I said, but from the little I told them now, they have decided that I am a terrorist. And,” Alejo hurled the phone onto the bed, obviously using less force than he would have liked, “the U.S. government does not help the family of terrorists.”
“What!?” Wara squawked. “They won’t help them because you’re a terrorist? But that’s why they need help!”
Alejo’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “I guess you’re right. Robert Cole at the embassy told me to tell you that you should contact them so they can pick you up immediately to send you home, by the way. They are going to call your family right away and confirm that you are alive and well.”
Both Alejo and Wara flinched at that expression. “They haven’t found the bodies of any Americans,” he added after a while, then looked away.
Wara’s heart revved. They hadn’t found Noah’s body. Which meant he could still be alive.
He had to still be alive.
“So now where will you send the Martirs?” she asked shakily. “Since the good old U.
S. of A has been so helpful?”
Alejo grimaced and massaged his temple, feet planted on the tile floor. “Everyone I know who could be any help in hiding them is connected to the Prism. Without all those contacts, I can’t get passports, visas, anything.” He let out a frustrated breath and then sat up, looking at Wara.
“We’ll go to plan B,” he announced. “I’ll put them on a bus to Lima this afternoon. They won’t check passports at the border, since they don’t look like tourists. We’ll take a taxi to Sacaba, that little town outside the city, and take a bus from there. The guys, hopefully, will only be watching the main terminal here in the city. They can get passports at the embassy there and take a flight to another country. It’s all so sudden, but we have enough money and I can make a new life for my family.” Alejo sighed slowly, watching Wara. “You should call the embassy to come pick you up,” he said.
Wara’s mind was reeling. Those guys she had seen on the mountain---they would forget about her soon though, right? She could go home, see her parents, find a new place to live and work? Come back to Bolivia someday?
At the moment, Wara didn’t care at all what she did or where she lived. Only two thoughts consumed her mind: Seeing the Martirs safe and out of this nightmare, and finding Noah Hearst.
“I can’t go without Noah.” The words slipped out before Wara realized it. Alejo looked at her sharply, mouth open as if about to protest but she cut him off. “I won’t leave Bolivia until I know.”
His mouth snapped shut, and he got up quickly and paced to the other bed, lowering himself down cross-legged on top of the unmade covers. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples even harder.
“I’ll stay with you until they know,” Alejo said finally. “My family can go on ahead, and we can meet them. I’m not going to leave you alone.”
“But…” Wara tried to protest, but couldn’t come up with anything reasonable to say.
No, you go on. I’ll just ward off all of those killers myself. I did such a lovely job of it last time.
Alejo’s very presence in the room caused a veritable host of unpleasant sensations in Wara’s brain. So why did her heart flood with something like relief at his plan?
“Thank you,” was all she finally said, fighting hard not to cry.
21
cinnamon
THE HOSTAL SALTA SEEMED LONELY AND depressing after the Martirs left. When Alejo and Wara pulled up in front of the hostel in a white taxi, the street lamps were already gleaming upon the darkened sidewalk, though people still hustled by in both directions. Wara supposed it must be around seven o’clock—one hour after she had waved good-bye to the family who had been like her own. She had barely been able to make out each face, peering through the tinted windows of a sleek double-decker bus about to depart for Lima, Peru.
Alejo had convinced his family to follow his plan, then had them call a friend from church to bring clothes from the market and food for the trip.
All of the kids’ clothes and toys stayed behind. The faded photograph of missing Alejandro from Nazaret’s dresser. Anyone who brought things from the Martirs house could be followed back here to the hostel.
The younger kids climbed onto the bus at Sacaba with huge tears in their eyes. Silky gray rain clouds swirled across the evening sky, threatening a downpour as the entire Martir family boarded the bus that would take them away from Bolivia.
Nazaret sobbed as she hugged Wara, hesitated, and then threw herself at her brother, weeping against his chest. Alejo’s back had been towards her, but Wara had seen him put his arms around Nazaret until she pulled away.
Now, Wara stepped out of the taxi and slammed the door, facing the unlit stars of the hostel. She and Alejo, who had tried to kill her, were alone here together, and Wara had never felt so strange.
The faded pinstriped sheets and lumpy pillows were still waiting. Wara felt even more depressed as she entered their hostel room, realizing that Alejo was now her only company. Maybe she could call Nazaret on her long bus trip later, just to hear the sound of a known voice. Alejo had picked up several more cheap little prepaid cell phones from the VIVA shop, and given three to the Martirs, plus one to Wara. Wara had made one call to the Bennesons, to ask them to call her on this number as soon as there was any news about Noah. Explaining why they shouldn’t give the number to anyone else had been tricky, as was trying to tell them why she wasn’t at home in the apartment below theirs, and couldn’t come back for safety reasons.
Why am I here with Alejo, instead of letting the U.S. Embassy pick me up and take care of me until I know about Noah? After hanging up with the Bennesons, the question had bothered her.
Because the Embassy doesn’t even seem to believe what is going on, Wara realized. You don’t know them. Alejo is a Martir—and you know him.
That’s crazy! Wara had scolded herself. He’s one of them!
Alejo closed the door and turned on the light. Thirty seconds of silence filled the room, as both of them sunk down onto one of the beds, listless. Then he sighed and asked: “Do you want to go to La Paz? The search and rescue efforts are working from there, and it’s the closest major hospital.”
Wara stared at him, feeling very weary, having a hard time understanding what he was saying. Did she want to go to La Paz?
Of course! If they find Noah that would be where they would take him, the best major hospital. Noly said that Noah’s parents were going to be in La Paz, waiting.
But Wara couldn’t decide what she wanted to do at all, except that she wanted to see her best friend who she loved again. “I don’t know,” she finally said hoarsely. “What do you think?”
Alejo looked away. “They’ve been searching for two days now, and they should be done soon. Noah lived here; the funeral will—would be—in Cochabamba. I think you should stay here.”
His words hit Wara like a punch in the gut. Everything Alejo said sounded so logical, but the cold reality of making such a decision based on the fact that the funeral would be here…For a moment she couldn’t breathe. It took her a long time to collect her thoughts and say, weakly, “Ok.”
All day she had waited with bated breath, feeling that any phone call could bring news that Noah had been found, alive. But hearing Alejo say that he expected the news would be about the funeral brought Wara back down to reality with a very painful crash.
After a long while she heard Alejo say, “I told Danny downstairs that we’re checking out tonight. We need to move to another place—it won’t be that hard for the guys to show our picture to reception at all of the cheap hostels in Cochabamba, and the longer we stay in one place, the more time they have to do that.” His voice sounded tight, but calm, not as bone-weary as Wara herself felt.
“Alright,” she managed. Her eyes were closed, and she felt her breathing slow, suddenly so relaxed she felt almost one with the sagging mattress underneath her. She cleared her throat and mumbled, “Right now?”
The thought crossed Wara’s mind that if she never got up off this bed again, that would be perfectly fine.
“Yeah, right now,” Alejo said, almost sounding apologetic. “We need to get going. And besides, now’s a good time. We’ll be going under cover of darkness.”
Wara cracked open her eyes and raised one eyebrow at him. His hazel eyes were watching her, expression unreadable. “Fine,” she answered him, sliding her eyes back shut. “But I think you’ll have to pack my bag for me.”
A joke, since her belongings consisted of two changes of clothes the Martirs’ friend had brought her from the market, along with a toothbrush and shampoo.
Alexis’ shiny-reared sweat pants and wombat shirt had found their final resting place in the bathroom trash can.
Wara realized that Alejo had actually gotten up and was bringing her toothbrush from the bathroom. He made sure it was inside the brown plaid bag that had also come from the market, and then slung that and a black backpack that had been brought for him over his shoulder.
“Ready?” he ask
ed, standing near the door. “I promise you can sleep when we get to our new place.”
Wara sighed loudly and rolled off the bed, hanging on to the side until she was steady. Her bleary gaze fell on Alejo, and she thought he didn’t look quite as threatening now that he was no longer wearing the military-style cargo pants and sweaty gray t-shirt from up on the mountain. He actually looked rather normal now in dark jeans, a hunter green hoodie, and leather tennis shoes.
“Are they going to find them?” she asked groggily, as she followed Alejo out the door into the hallway.
Without turning around, he answered carefully, “I don’t think so. I would never forgive myself.”
Their taxi sped along the highway towards Sacaba, the same route they had taken to say good-bye to the Martirs. Not even halfway to Sacaba, Alejo directed the taxi driver to veer off the highway towards a gravel-covered incline. With a sharp tap of the brakes, the driver darted in front of oncoming traffic on the highway’s opposite lane and bumped onto the more uneven road. He then punched the gas, letting the shiny, newer taxi climb up towards wherever their final destination would be.
Spanish pop music filled the clean, gray interior of the taxi, and the young driver, wearing a peach polo shirt, tapped a muscular forearm against the steering wheel to keep rhythm. This under-maintained road took them higher and higher up one of the mountains at Cochabamba’s northern edge, the bumps and ruts jolting the taxi with more violence the farther along they went. Three iridescent CDs hung from the top of the windshield on gold cords, dangling and swaying with each jolt of the car.
“A los moteles, no amigo?” The taxi driver’s eyes met Alejo’s in the rear view mirror.
“Yep,” Alejo nodded to him, mouth turning up. “El Cupido.”
Wara glanced over at Alejo sharply. They were entering an area where the dusty road was pock-marked with rocks and shaded by eucalyptus trees. On either side, brightly-painted walls rose up, sporting neon signs with names that did not appear to be those of respectable hotels: Safari, the Oasis, the “Park Drive-In”, and Lover’s Paradise.
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