Hunt was awakened by Joel’s knock on the door. “Get up!” he shouted. “Time to get going!”
“I’m up!” he lied, nudging Beth next to him. “We’re both up! Be out in a few minutes!”
There hadn’t been much to see at night, but in the midmorning, the view from the window was breathtaking. They were on the third floor of a four-story building, and from this vantage point they could look out over most of the city and see the heavily forested mountains beyond. Hunt had never been to any part of Mexico other than Nogales and Baja California and could not remember ever having seen a panoramic shot of the Chiapas landscape. It was all television closeups of armed guerrillas and buildings riddled with bullet holes. And Tuxtla Gutierrez certainly hadn’t been on his travel radar. But the country here was beautiful. A cloudless sky so blue it looked like paint presided over a countryside of dark rugged mountains and hills overgrown with native trees of the deepest, darkest green. In the foreground, Tuxtla Gutierrez looked as exotic as its name promised, with mustached men in brightly colored garb pushing carts through an outdoor marketplace. Everything was foreign and unfamiliar, and there was something innately exciting about that. It occurred to him that he should travel more, that if they ever got out of this alive, he and Beth should make an effort to see the world, to visit the places they’d only read and heard about.
If they got out.
Beth emerged from the bathroom, and then it was his turn. Ten minutes later, they were dressed and ready to go. They knocked on the door of Joel and Jorge’s room, and the four of them went downstairs. Hunt bought some sugarcoated bread from a vendor in the lobby, got four Cokes from a machine, and took everything over to a threadbare couch in the corner for breakfast.
They’d spent their time on the Cessna poring over the insurance agent’s maps and trying to compare them with a contemporary tourist map of Chiapas that Jorge had bought at the Mexico City airport, but they were no closer to locating the headquarters of The Insurance Group than they had been in Tucson. What’s more, now that they were here, finding the office seemed akin to looking for a needle in a haystack. They were not even sure where to begin. They could look in a phone book or wander the streets searching for a sign that read “The Insurance Group,” but Hunt had the sneaking suspicion that the company was not so free with its self-promotion. Still, one of the locals might know something, Beth suggested. She nodded at Jorge. “We already have a translator.”
Several moments of conversation with the desk clerk, the vendors in and outside of the hotel and two men who wandered into the lobby for no apparent reason made Jorge think better of that plan. “We need a guide,” he said. “Someone who knows the area.”
Hunt looked from Beth to Joel and shrugged. “Fine.”
Jorge spoke rapidly to the desk clerk in Spanish, and the man picked up the phone behind him, talked for a few minutes, then nodded.
“He’s on his way!” Jorge announced.
They opted to wait in the lobby rather than their rooms, Beth visiting the line of vendors that stood in lieu of a gift shop while the men alternately sat on the threadbare couch and paced anxiously. Twenty minutes later, a slightly built man with a thick Zapatista mustache walked into the lobby, directly over to them, and said in accented but easily understandable English that he would accompany them and act as their guide for as long as they wanted for twelve dollars a day, American money.
“Twelve dollars,” Hunt asked incredulously.
“Okay, ten.”
The guide’s name was Manuel, and he said he had his own four-wheel-drive pickup truck and would take them anywhere they needed to go. Unfortunately, there were five of them including Manuel and only room for three in the cab—assuming one person sat almost on top of the stick shift.
“I’ll sit in the back,” Joel offered, slapping the wall of the truck bed.
“Me, too,” Hunt said. “Beth? You and Jorge sit with Manuel.”
“No,” Jorge said. “You stay.”
“We need you to translate.”
Manuel was offended. “I speak three languages! I need no translator!”
“I’ll sit in the back,” Jorge said. He and Joel climbed in and settled down, backs against the cab wall.
Hunt felt like Indiana Jones, standing on the teeming street, and for a brief wonderful moment the horror of why they were here receded as he climbed into the dusty front seat of the rattletrap truck. Then reality came crashing back full force, he saw in his mind Lilly’s mangled body, and he was filled with a new resolve to terminate the insurance agent’s life policy—
and life
—and do what he could to bring down the entire damn company, although he was not at all sure how they could accomplish such an ambitious goal.
“Where to go?” Manuel asked before starting the vehicle.
Hunt showed him one of the printouts, the section of the map detailing Chiapas, blown up to cover the entire page. He pointed to the starred circle beneath the thick spiderweb of lines. “We are looking for an insurance company that is located somewhere in this area. It is called The Insurance Group in English, but I’m not sure if it has the same name over here. It’s—” A multinational corporation, he’d been about to say, but he was not even sure that was true. He thought for a moment, looked up at the guide and decided to simply level with Manuel. They didn’t have time to fool around, and they weren’t going to get anywhere if they tiptoed around the subject “It’s a company that doesn’t sell normal insurance. Do you have insurance over here?”
“We have insurance, yes. Do I have insurance? No.”
“Well, they sell car and home and health insurance, but they also sell good neighbor insurance and personal injury insurance. And if you buy these, your enemies are killed and you are not.”
The guide’s eyes widened. “You bought this?”
“We had no choice,” Beth said. “We had to.”
“Now I have life insurance, and they have promised I will live forever.”
“This I not believe.”
“It’s true. I don’t know if it works, and I don’t want to find out, but I have it and I have to pay for it and I can’t afford it. I want to find the company and… stop it.”
“Does any of this sound familiar?” Beth asked. “Have you ever heard of anything like it or are you familiar with any rumors of something along those lines?”
He shook his head. “No, no.”
“But can you help us find this company?”
“I don’t know where to start,” Manuel admitted. He grinned, revealing two missing teeth. “But this is why I agree to help you. I thought you did not wish to go shopping. That is why I am only charging you ten dollars a day.”
“Twenty,” Beth offered.
“Gracias. I accept.”
“So where do we start?” Hunt asked. “The phone book?”
“Your American office is not listed, no?”
“No,” Hunt agreed.
“Not here either, I think. I know a man, though, who maybe can help us. We start with him.”
“Great,” Hunt said.
Beth nodded. “We really appreciate this.”
Manuel started the engine, which roared to life.
“Hang on,” he said.
Away from the main thoroughfares, the streets of Tuxtla Gutierrez were rough and narrow, built in a time when there were carts instead of cars, when people drove herds instead of pickups. A lot of people still walked here, and Manuel’s truck sped between the ancient buildings through these constricted roads, barely missing crowds of men, women and children. The vehicle had no seat belts or shoulder harnesses, and both Hunt and Beth held on for dear life, he bracing his hands against the dashboard, she clutching the armrest of the door.
Hunt could only imagine what it was like for Joel and Jorge in the back. Each time he turned around and peeked through the dusty rear window, he saw them sprawled in Twister positions, using arms and legs to keep themselves from flying around the open space,
their mouths and eyes closed tight against the dirt.
They passed buildings of white-painted mud that looked like they had been shot at in more than one war and structures with ladders leading onto roofs that could have come from an Indian pueblo. Everywhere, clothes fluttered from windowsill clotheslines.
This land was old. Hunt had never had a sense before of just how young America was, but here he could feel the crush of the past, the weight of history. The very air held a sense of depth. These streets had been trod upon a century before the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, and many of them appeared to have changed very little in the intervening years.
He was thoroughly lost by the time they reached their destination: a two-story tan brick building at the end of an alley. A man with a machine gun slung over his shoulder emerged from the open doorway, and Manuel stepped out of the truck, shouting out what sounded like a greeting. The man disappeared back into the building and a moment later another man walked out, a jolly overweight fellow wearing billowy white clothes. He looked like an extra in a bad movie, the comic-relief father of the hero’s love interest. But the man with the machine gun, obviously a guard, indicated that Manuel’s friend was more than just a simple funny guy. Manuel as well seemed to show deference to the fat man, and though the two were obviously friendly, just as obviously one had far more power than the other.
Joel and Jorge hopped out of the truck bed and stood next to the passenger door.
“This is my good friend Rodrigo,” the guide said. “If anything happens in the city, he knows about it. Give me your map, and I ask him about the insurance company.”
“The Insurance Group,” Hunt repeated, handing out the map. “That’s what it’s called in the United States.”
“I will tell him of your life insurance. He may not believe it, but I know he will be interested. So if he does not yet know about the company, he will find out.”
But the news did not have the desired effect. Hunt could tell that immediately from the expression on Rodrigo’s face, yet Manuel kept on, talking faster, obviously trying to get in as much as he could before being shot down.
Suddenly, the fat man lashed out and slapped Manuel across the face. Stunned, the guide backed up a step. Rodrigo said something angrily, then shouted what sounded like an order.
“This is not good,” Jorge murmured.
The man with the machine gun came running out, accompanied by two similarly armed guards. Rodrigo struck again, slapping Manuel’s face, and Manuel made no effort to defend himself. There was nothing jolly about the fat man now, and he pointed toward Joel and Jorge, standing by the truck, speaking heatedly.
The man was a thug, but obviously one with clout, and Hunt didn’t know whether to step in and try to help Manuel or sit back silently and wait for it all to end. The fact that he didn’t understand the language and had no idea what was really going on left him at a distinct disadvantage.
It was Beth who jumped in. “Leave him alone!” she ordered, opening her door.
Rodrigo stopped, out of shock if nothing else. Even if he didn’t understand the words, he understood the tone of voice, and Hunt doubted that he was used to having anyone speak to him that way, let alone a woman.
Manuel was moving slowly away, back toward the truck, trying not to make any sudden movements. “Stay out of this,” he told them. “You are not involved.”
Joel and Jorge moved equally slowly away from the passenger door toward the rear of the pickup.
“I think we are involved,” Beth said, and her voice was strong.
“He does not believe me. He thinks I am making fun—”
A gunshot rang out.
It was not the fire of an automatic weapon, and none of the three guards had moved at all, but they moved now, surrounding Rodrigo and quickly ushering him back into the building.
Beth reached for the handle, slamming the door shut. Another shot was fired from somewhere—a rooftop, the upper window of another building—and Manuel ran back to the truck. “Get down!” he ordered. “Duck!”
They already had. Hunt felt like screaming, but his mouth was completely dry and his voice wouldn’t work. He could feel the beating of his heart in the back of his throat. He crouched on the floor of the pickup, an arm held protectively around Beth, and the only thought in his mind was that they would not be able to stop the agent and his insurance company because they were about to be killed right here.
But he could not be killed.
He had life insurance.
Deluxe life.
Maybe he couldn’t be killed, but Beth could.
He sat up instantly, then moved back down, draping himself over her, trying to cover her body like a shield of armor. She didn’t object, didn’t say anything or try to push him away, and then suddenly Manuel was back in the driver’s seat, the engine was revving, and they were speeding backward up the alley the way they’d come. When the pickup reached another cross street, Manuel swung the wheel around, the truck spun with the sound of screeching tires, and then they were shooting forward and away.
“It’s safe!” he announced. “You can get up.”
Hunt tried, but the velocity of the vehicle and the bumpiness of the road made it difficult.
“What the hell was that about?” he asked as his head slammed painfully against the underside of the dashboard. He pulled himself onto the seat and helped Beth up.
Manuel rubbed the raw red side of his face. “He thought I was lying to him. He thought… I do not know what he thought. Rodrigo has many enemies, and he cannot be too careful. As you have seen. But do not worry. I have another idea.”
Hunt looked over at Beth. The expression on her face mirrored his own feelings: maybe they should find another guide, someone without any ties to the criminal underworld. They did not have time to waste, but neither did they want to end up shot in some back alley as part of some gangster’s turf war.
But he could not be shot.
He was immortal.
Besides, someone with such a wide range of contacts was probably exactly the type of person who could find the whereabouts of the insurance company.
Hunt looked through the window behind him, saw Joel and Jorge still flattened on the bed of the pickup. “Are you okay?” he yelled, but they could not hear him. “Are you guys all right?” There was no response, but then they took a sharp corner and Jorge’s arm reached out to grab the ridge just below the window. Joel moved his foot to compensate for the turn. He saw no blood on either of them.
They were all right.
“What’s your idea?” he asked Manuel.
“The witch. Maybe the witch will know.”
Hunt and Beth exchanged a look. “The witch?” Beth said.
Manuel smiled enigmatically. “You will see.”
2
Beth got out of the truck when Manuel stopped, grateful for the relief. They had been driving down a series of dirt roads through an empty section of wilderness for well over an hour. Her thighs were numb, her buttocks hurt, and if she’d been sitting at a different angle, she probably would have had an orgasm. The ride had been vibratingly rough, and her ears were still buzzing from the noise of the engine. Her head felt thick, padded, as though she’d spent all day in a tiny club listening to ear-splitting music at the highest decibels.
She stretched her arms, arched her back, walked to get out some of the kinks in her legs.
The sun was low, the afternoon nearly gone. Whether or not this “witch” had any information for them, they would not be able to act on it until tomorrow. By the time they returned to the hotel, it would be dark. And she was still tired, even though they’d awakened close to noon. She could tell from the droopy expressions on the faces of Hunt, Jorge, and Joel that they all felt the same. Maybe tomorrow, after another full night of sleep, their bodies would be adjusted to the new country.
Hopefully.
If she had been hoping for some revisionist witch, one of those modern Wicca women found in movies living
in contemporary surroundings, wearing street clothes, she could not have been more off the mark. This was something out of a folktale, a small shrewish hag who would have been at home in the story of Hansel and Gretel.
She lived in a small hut at the base of a black volcanic cliff. The dwelling was made of wood. Branches and twigs, to be more precise, all carefully fitted together to form solid walls and roof. She would have made some crack about the three little pigs had she not been so frightened, but as it was she remained silent. The domicile was humble, but from it emanated an aura of great power—and great evil. That was an old-fashioned word and not one she had often used since childhood, but it fit.
It fit a lot of things lately.
The witch was old and hunched over, her face weathered and lined, flesh puckered over a missing right eye in what looked like a permanent wink. She smelled of feces and spice, but Beth forced herself not to gag, afraid of what the consequences might be. Next to her, she could tell that Hunt was also trying to keep down his gorge.
The old woman did not seem to know Manuel, and she greeted him with suspicion, despite his air of friendly obsequiousness. But he spoke clearly and sincerely, and the witch listened to what he had to say. Unlike Rodrigo, she did not disbelieve him or dismiss his story out of hand, but seemed to accept what he said at face value.
“What’s he saying?” Hunt asked Jorge.
“He’s just telling her what you told him. Now he’s describing the insurance that makes you immortal.”
Manuel pointed, and the witch looked at Hunt.
The guide took several coins out of his front pocket and deferentially handed them to the old woman. She nodded her acknowledgment of his offerings, then spoke a single word.
“Sí.”
“She knows where the company is located,” he told them.
Beth was filled with an unexpected sense of relief. It was as if she had been holding her breath, waiting for the answer, and now that it had come she could breathe again. She reached for Hunt’s hand, grabbed it, and was gratified by his returning squeeze.
THE POLICY Page 32