“Nicaragua,” he said into his mike, “a land of violence and danger…”
We landed in a muddy cove, climbed down a ladder, and scrambled over submerged boulders. The phantom boat stayed well out in the lake. Alan and one of Rosario’s assistants remained on the Indigo. Once ashore, we followed Rosario uphill through scrubby vegetation in single file, Sutter looking like a big game hunter with his rifle, khakis, and Panama hat.
Here and there we came upon litter left by the squatters—bottles, cans, and plastic bags. Rosario and Frieda were soon drenched in sweat. Hosmer darted up and down every ridge like a teenager. He explored every side trail, and claimed to know the identity of every single plant.
The only excitement was when he stirred up a wasp nest and got stung.
“Too bad he’s not allergic,” Frieda muttered behind me.
After about fifteen minutes, we rounded a bend and came upon a massive pile of stone rubble.
“Behold,” Rosario said. “I give you Sonzapote.”
Chapter 87
I stood there, gawking. Could this be the City of Glyph Girl? This desolate hilltop where nothing but lizards scurried around? This expanse of rubble and volcanic ejecta with no markers or plaques? Minstrels and mystics should be wandering about this wonderful place, measuring its energy, singing its praises. “Highly advanced civilization,” I heard Rosario saying.
Abby cried out from behind a patch of scrubby plants. “You’ve got to see this, Jen.”
I hurried over with Sutter and stared into a rift. It was six to ten feet across and about three times that deep, with creepers, chichicaste, loose rocks, and other rank vegetation.
“Is this where the villagers perished?” Abby asked.
Everyone gathered around. Except for the wind, it grew quiet. I took out my sketches, waited for Boone to get his camera rolling and began my lecture. “It started with tremors,” I said, “just as Moses had foretold. But did the villagers heed her warning? No, they kept on with their wicked ways. So Moses went up to that volcano over there and came back with a list of laws.”
“Conjecture,” said Hosmer. “Pure conjecture.”
I ignored him and held up a sketch. “See here. You’ve got Glyph Girl doing it with Flute Man even though she’s living with Star Gazer. Then Moses bursts onto the scene and points at a smoking volcano. It’s her way of showing disapproval.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Hosmer said.
Abby punched him on the shoulder. “Let her finish.”
I took out more sketches. “Look at these. Moses gets upset about Glyph Girl praying to an idol. She points to the volcano as if to say the gods disapprove. Same thing when a villager kills another villager. Again when someone is stealing bread from a cabin. You can read into it what you want, but it’s clear to me Moses is expressing disapproval.’“
Boone moved in closer with his camera, filming the sketches.
“The villages laughed at her,” I said. “Taunted her. So she went up the mountain a second time, and when she came back, the mountain was burning, the ground shaking.”
Rosario was wide-eyed. “What happened next?”
“That volcano over there—Mombacho. It exploded. Day turned to night. Fire and debris fell from the sky. But the worst of it was a tidal wave. The villagers ran for high ground, up there. But then the ground opened. This ground. Here where we’re standing. In it went everyone except Moses, Rabbit Half-Moon and a few other survivors.”
Again it grew quiet enough to hear the surf. “Moses used the disaster to make her point, which was basically that if you kill, steal, rape, fool around with your neighbor’s wife, or worship graven images, God is going to pull a Sodom and Gomorrah on you.”
Hosmer shook his head. “Come on, McMullen. A Moses character is hard enough to take; now you’ve got Lot fleeing from Sodom.”
Frieda turned on him. “Why don’t you go back to the boat?”
“Good idea,” he said. “I’m tired of listening to this drivel.” He started toward the boat, but then stopped, got a running start, and sailed over the rift like an Olympian.
“Are you crazy?” Abby yelled.
“Oh, come on. Let’s see who else can jump it.” He pointed at me. “How about you, Taco Bell?” He flapped his arms and clucked like a chicken.
“Did you call me Taco Bell?”
Frieda touched my arm. “He’s drunk. You can smell it.”
Hosmer backed up for another jump. “Come on, girls, am I the only one who can do it?”
“Is he stupid or what?” Boone’s girlfriend grumbled.
“Stupid works for me,” Frieda said.
With Boone filming and everyone watching, Hosmer jumped the rift again, landing at my feet. He grabbed my arm for support, but the soil at the edge gave way. “Sonofabitch,” he yelled, and slid into the chasm like a log going over a waterfall.
Birds fluttered out. Dust rose around him. When the earth settled, I saw him twenty or more feet below us in a patch of chichicaste. “Are you hurt?” I yelled down.
“Get me out of this shit! It’s eating me alive!”
I tossed down my water bottle. “Pour this on you. And stop thrashing around.”
Abby raced down to the Indigo for a rope. Hosmer moaned and cursed like a mad man. “Damn you, McCraven. You pushed me.”
“She didn’t push you,” Frieda shouted back. “And her name’s not McCraven.”
“What an idiot,” Boone’s girlfriend said. “We should leave him.”
At length, Abby returned with a rope. Sutter fashioned one end into a harness, secured the other around a tree, and rappelled into the ravine. He got Hosmer into the harness and as we were pulling him up, Rosario’s cell phone rang.
She took it, listened, and looked up. “Phantom boat. It’s coming in.”
Chapter 88
We pulled Hosmer and Sutter out of the ravine and raced down the trail toward the Indigo, Hosmer hobbling and cursing, Frieda and Rosario grunting, Abby tripping and falling. As we neared the landing, Sutter knelt down and sighted the boat through the telescope of his rifle.
“Man and woman,” he said. “No, make that two men and a woman.”
I yanked out my Beretta and pulled back the slide. The boat landed. I waited for Gonzales to climb out with his ugly sneer and assault rifle. Probably with Prudencia and another soldier.
A young man jumped out—with a camera. Then an older man with more equipment. And, finally, Elizabeth Alvarado from Channel 4, looking as if she’d been swimming in the lake.
She marched straight over to me, hair plastered to her face, water dripping.
“What’s with the gun, Jennifer? Are you going to shoot us?”
I sighed in frustration and holstered the pistol. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re standing on Nicaraguan soil. My country, not yours.”
She followed us back to the landing with her crew and cameras, filming our every step, asking questions I refused to answer. When we reached the Indigo, Alan yelled down from the railing. “Where’s Dr. Hosmer? I don’t see him.”
Abby yelled for him. Meanwhile Elizabeth had closed in and was filming us for her audience.
“That tub,” she said into her mike, “is flying the flag of the United States. It has a North American crew. North American press…”
Hosmer came struggling out of the lake like an apparition from the deep. Naked.
His face and neck were red and swollen from the chichicaste. The rest of his body was as white as the beach sand. We stood there, mouths open. “What the hell are you doing?” Sutter yelled at him. “Get your skinny ass aboard and put on some clothes.”
Boone captured his nakedness on film. So did Elizabeth’s camera. Then we followed him up the boarding ladder. Alan fired up the Indigo and backed us away from the landing. Elizabeth and her news crew jumped into their little boat to resume their pursuit.
And that was when Hosmer, still naked, held u
p an ignition coil.
“They’re not going anywhere without this.”
Back at the landing, Elizabeth was screaming and flinging coconuts into the water.
The wind picked up. Waves pounded us. A window broke, letting in water and spray. Boone’s girlfriend threw up all over the cabin. Hosmer grew delirious and began ranting that we were conspiring against him. My stomach was revolting too, and I was about to climb into a berth when Rosario came into the cabin. “Just spoke with the president,” she announced. “He’s instructed me to cut the number on this expedition to five.”
She grabbed an overhead beam for support. “I’ll be going as representative of the Nicaraguan government. Don Eduardo as the embassy representative. The others are”—she consulted a list in her hand—”Jennifer, Dr. Sutter, and Mr. Boone.”
Boone protested. Abby, who looked as if she, too, was about to lose her breakfast, said nothing. Frieda said, “Fine by me. “I’ve had enough of this damn lake.”
We came off the Indigo seasick, wet, and exhausted. Alan had phoned ahead for a medical unit for Hosmer, and as they wheeled him to a waiting ambulance, he lifted an arm. “Jennifer McCullen. Don’t you dare go to that cave without me. Do you hear me, Jennifer?”
One of the medics asked, “What kind of medication is he on?”
“Johnny fucking Walker!” Hosmer yelled from the gurney.
It was dark when we reached the hotel. I was shivering, my stomach churning, head aching, and I was in a foul mood. Sutter helped me into the lobby with my bag, but because I was so miserable, I didn’t notice Elizabeth Alvarado until the TV lights flashed on.
There she stood, this woman from hell, as wet and miserable looking as I felt.
“Here they are again,” she said into her mike. “The team that sabotaged our boat. What they didn’t realize was that Channel Four has a helicopter.”
She twirled a finger to emphasize her point.
I tried to step around her. “Wait,” she said, and held up a copy of my doctoral dissertation. “Thought you were going to keep this secret, didn’t you? Well, guess what? It’ll be all over the news tonight, you and your female Moses.”
“Where did you get that?”
“I have my sources.”
A crowd from the lobby gathered around. I shoved past Elizabeth and hurried away, but she followed me up the stairs, shouting questions like a Sixty Minutes reporter.
“When are you going to the cave again?”
“Is it true you killed a man in the cave?”
“What happened, Jennifer? Did he assault you?”
I slammed the door in her face, peeled drenched clothes off my body and climbed in the shower. The lights went out.
Then the water stopped running, leaving me with shampoo in my hair.
I cursed. I pounded my fists against the tile.
When I finally settled down, I lit candles and rinsed my hair with a bucket of water the hotel had left for emergencies. I took an Alka-Seltzer for my head-ache, and was about to crawl into bed when someone began pounding on the door, frantically, as if the hotel was on fire.
“Jen, it’s me, Carla.”
I opened the door. “What’s going on?”
“We’re busting you out. Get dressed. Hurry. Put on your blonde wig.”
“What about my suitcase?”
“Leave it. Someone will pick it up.”
A few minutes later, we eased into the hallway and took the stairs. The lobby was poorly lit with lamps. Cigar and cigarette smoke added to the dimness. Elizabeth wasn’t there, only a few reporter-looking types. They glanced up, but seemed to dismiss us as tourists.
Out the front and along the patio we went, trying to look inconspicuous.
A horse-drawn carriage came clattering along the street. It drew to a stop beside us, bringing with it the aroma of cigarettes, leather and horse sweat. The tuxedoed driver motioned us aboard.
“Hop in,” Carla said.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Do as I say, please. Before Elizabeth sees us.”
We climbed aboard. The driver cracked the reins and we clopped around the plaza in the darkness, the driver pointing out the old Royal House of Accounting, the Indian market, and the home of some rich guy. He stopped at the cathedral and helped us down.
“Now what?” I asked Carla.
“Stop asking questions and come on.”
We stumbled on, following the gloom down a cobbled side street. There were no streetlights and no traffic, only an occasional window lit by candles.
“There,” she said.
The interior lights of a SUV came on. A large man sprang out and motioned us into the back. A woman sat in the passenger seat, but remained silent.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“Later,” said the man.
He gunned the engine, made a U-turn, and took the road toward the lake.
Chapter 89
Lake Nicaragua
I’d never been to Asese at night, and was unprepared for the croaks and chirrs from the nearby swamp, the sight of boats bobbing in the surf, and the glow of lanterns atop pilings and on boat masts. Our driver stopped near the dock, sprang out, and opened the back door for us.
Comandante Ponce. And the passenger with him was none other than Luz Maria.
As if that wasn’t shocking enough, Ricardo emerged from the darkness.
“What is going on?” I asked Ricardo. “How are you involved?”
“Later. Your luggage is over there.”
He picked up my bags and led us down to a sleek-looking boat with twin Yamahas. “A Pursuit,” he said, as if that should have meaning. “It’ll outrun anything on the lake.”
Because of the poor light, I didn’t recognize Boone until he spoke in his Australian accent. Then Sutter stepped aboard. Behind him came Nelson in a tattered white T-shirt, dreadlocks and all. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” I asked Ricardo.
“Ana Maria.”
Of course. How foolish of me to ask.
It was almost ten when we approached the island. Nelson cut the engines and let the drift carry us in. Over on the Isle of Thieves, a fire was burning, and I could imagine Leocadia in her tight shorts and tank top, dancing around the fire with Gonzales.
The boathouse doors swung open. We idled in. Someone lit candles. People stood back in the shadows, but it wasn’t until my eyes adjusted that I recognized them—Alan’s driver, Paco, with an AK-47 over his shoulder. Rosario with a pistol about her thick waist. Alan in jeans.
By then it wouldn’t have surprised me if the president of Nicaragua showed up.
Boone switched on his camera lights to record this moment for posterity.
“Are you crazy?” Rosario shrieked. “Turn out those lights.”
Alan led us into the cabin. It looked the same as I remembered: same furniture, same paintings, same smells. “This your place?” Boone asked Alan.
“Belongs to the embassy. We use it to entertain guests.”
Right, I thought. This place was a fuck pad. Period.
“I’m sorry for the way we abducted you,” Alan said. “But it was the only way to get you away from Elizabeth.” He explained the sleeping arrangements and served up a dinner of gallo pinto, during which he and Rosario outlined our plans for visiting Zapateras.
Sutter listened but remained silent. How difficult it must be for him, I thought, a powerful man taking orders from the ex-boyfriend of the woman he loved.
“Almost eleven,” Alan said, glancing at his watch. “We should get some sleep.”
Carla and I shared the same bed in which I’d made love with Alan a hundred times. It had the same smells and the same starry view out the window.
“What a romantic place,” Carla said. “A tropical paradise. No wonder you fell so hard.”
I had a hundred questions for her, but as we lay there listening to the pounding surf, it seemed pointless to ask. I already knew the answers. Ricardo wa
sn’t just a student. Carla knew more than she was telling. And Alan wasn’t the US/AID official he claimed to be.
“What are you going to do about Sutter?” she asked. “He looks miserable.”
I turned away from her. “I don’t know, Carla.”
At 0500 hours, after a breakfast of fruit, toast and cheese, we congregated in the boathouse. Paco and Nelson stood back in the shadows, rumpled and unshaven. Alan and Ricardo also looked as if they’d slept in their clothes. Rosario’s hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions. Sutter, by contrast, looked as starched and pressed as if he were going to the hippodrome in London.
“It’ll be chilly on the lake,” Alan said, his face illuminated by candlelight. “Grab a blanket.”
Boone trained his camera on me. “This is your big moment, Jen. Say something profound.”
“Rock and roll,” I said, and climbed into the boat.
Paco pushed open the doors. Carla, who was staying behind with Nelson and Paco, kissed Ricardo and watched us putter into the lake beneath a starry sky.
“Be careful!” she shouted.
Chapter 90
Isla Zapateras
We saw it long before we got there, hills and forest that looked like clouds on the horizon, looming larger and more menacing by the minute. Ricardo followed my directions to the entrance. We paused to be sure no one had followed. Then, with only here and there a streak of light in the sky, we idled through the inlet, passed through the lagoon, paddled into the reeds, and scraped bottom in the place of my nightmares.
“Wait,” Alan whispered. “Keep quiet.”
We sat in the darkness, listening to the croaks and chirrs of the night and breathing in the smells of swamp and dead fish. Fireflies flickered. Mosquitoes buzzed, but there were no human sounds. Nothing but the sounds of jungle.
Alan eased out with his AK, splashed ashore, and came back.
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