by Clay Farrow
Hilton sensed movement, a change in the light. He started to roll to safety, but not quickly enough. A shoeless, misshapen foot slammed into his midsection and flung him against the rear wall of the cell. The swiftness of the crippled man astonished him. He slumped to the floor holding his ribs then rolled onto his back gasping for breath. Fidel teetered slightly setting his twisted foot back on the floor. It was then Hilton noticed he kept as little weight as possible on the deformed foot.
With one hand pressed against the wall for support, he struggled back to his knees. On all fours, he crept back toward Pedro to complete his duties as a mortician. He wouldn’t be caught unaware again; he couldn’t afford to be caught unaware again. Grunting in pain, he raised the dead man’s legs while he pulled the cotton bag up to the cadaver’s waist. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Fidel limp to the back of the cell and brace himself against the rear wall. Hilton saw Fidel's shoulder twitch and readied himself as the giant pushed off.
Again, Fidel lashed out with his clubfoot. Hilton waited until the last moment then dodged the deformed club, letting it sail past his ribcage. Fidel's foot rose higher and higher and he began to topple over. Instinctively, he attempted regain his balance. The clubfoot crashed to the floor and buckled, unable to bear his weight. Fidel pitched forward toward the cell door.
Hilton watched in stunned disbelief as Fidel managed to throw out his good foot. His upper body plunged ahead of his legs and for an instant it looked as if he might save himself. He desperately needed the other foot to arrest his fall, and flung the leg out. But again the grotesque limb couldn't bear any serious weight and collapsed under him. He pitched forward headfirst, only to be brought to an abrupt halt when the jagged edge of the iron cell door stabbed into his skull. He dropped to the ground, his body caught in the throes of convulsions. Then he went rigid.
Hilton got to his knees and scrambled to Fidel’s side. He examined the top of his head. The bone was crushed where his head had made contact with the door. The dagger-like iron spurs had punctured his skull. Hilton didn’t bother to check for a pulse; Fidel would never terrorize another inmate again.
He looked out to the prison yard; not a soul to be seen. This was his chance, and he partially closed the cell door before he attracted the attention of a curious guard or inmate. He wasn’t much closer to freedom, but he had bought himself time to plan. Right now, though, he had to take an inventory of what tools he had at his disposal. He ran his hands over the dirt floor around Fidel until he hit upon the flashlight. Switching it on, he checked Fidel’s back pockets. Nothing. He laid the flashlight to one side, scrunched down on his knees and heaved against the giant.
Uttering a sharp cry, Hilton doubled up in pain holding his ribs. He steeled himself then tried once more. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow, but Fidel was beginning to shift. Panting, Hilton thought it would be easier righting a small car. He placed one hand against the man’s chest and continued to push. Slowly the body rolled onto its side. Then, without warning, Fidel tumbled onto his back with Hilton sprawled across his chest.
He rested, gathering his strength, then rummaged through Fidel’s front pockets and dropped the contents on the earthen floor. Finally, he untied a length of rope, a half inch in diameter, that had served as the convict's belt. Using the flashlight, he set out his trophies, lining them up in a row. In addition to the flashlight and the rope belt, there was the key to the cell, a four-inch penknife, a package of cigarettes, a packet of matches, and a six inch sailmaker's needle sticking into a large ball of heavy twine.
Hilton shone the flashlight on the only other item of interest. The soiled cotton shroud containing a very dead Pedro. He gazed at it for a long moment and wondered.
25:
Rancho de la Noche – Wednesday
Monica Fremont stabbed the last piece of steak on her plate and popped it into her mouth, then leaned against the backrest of a wrought iron, patio chair and stretched her legs. Sitting next to her was Amanda, who had gobbled down her steak and was now finishing the last of her ice cream.
"Did you enjoy the dinner?" Monica asked.
"It was alright, but I like Uncle Hilton's steak sauce better."
If they weren't being held as hostages, Monica thought, this would have been a perfect tropical evening, except for the chilling nighttime howls and grunts coming from the sixteen-foot high enclosure at the base of the patio.
The courtyard was bathed with soft light provided by sconces set into the three walls that formed the hacienda’s U-shaped terrace. A padlocked double gate into the enclosure was off to one side of the courtyard. Where the hacienda overlooked the enclosure, the roof had been cut back to accommodate a pair of well-lit balconies.
The forty-by-forty foot cobblestone quad had an assortment of tables and chairs. In the center of the courtyard stood four large palm trees, offering shelter from the dry season's sun and rainy season's showers. A thirty-foot lap pool ran across the bottom of the patio a few feet from the fence. The formal entrance was through the grand reception area and even here, all the windows were secured with decorative metal grills.
Monica glanced at Liz Dennison and Ken Byers who were locked in whispered conversation at a table ten feet to her left. They broke apart as a maid set another chilled bottle of beer on the table next to Liz's .38mm pistol. As soon as she left, they resumed their tête-à-tête. Rick Calvin sat off to one side across from the couple sipping a coke, partially hidden in the shadows. In the time they'd been outdoors he'd yet to take his eyes off of Amanda.
She almost felt sorry for the young man. He had been wearing a lost little lamb look since his run-in with Amanda. And she wasn't making it any easier for him. In the past two hours she'd looked directly at him a number of times. The instant he squared his shoulders and his face lit up, she would glare at him for thirty seconds, then turn her back to him. And he'd collapse in his chair like a punctured balloon.
Although Monica couldn't hear Ken and Liz, she knew they were arguing. Ken brandished the vial that had been snatched from her neck, while Liz angrily shook her head, an emphatic 'No.'
Lieutenant Diego and his four soldiers were off to her right, sitting around a table quietly talking and drinking beer.
"Have you finished your dinner, Señora?"
Startled, Monica looked over her shoulder at the maid. "Yes. Thank you."
The woman removed their dinner dishes and carried them into the hacienda.
Amanda leaned toward Monica. "What's going to happen to us, Aunt Monica?"
"I don't know sweetheart. But it's me they're interested in, not you. You'll probably be back home within forty-eight hours."
"I'm not going without you."
The sound of a chair being pushed back on the cobblestones distracted Monica. Ken stood, picked up his tumbler of rum and coke and weaved his way toward them. He pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table, sat and plunked his glass down.
Shaking his head, he said, "I find it unbelievable that Mayan savages could come up with a vaccine which has stumped the medical community for decades."
"Those savages, as you call them," Monica retorted, "had a sophisticated society when our ancestors were still living in straw huts."
Ken rolled his eyes.
"Take Tikal, for example. Around 750 A.D. the population was estimated to be up to 80,000, almost double the size of London in the 1500s."
Ken shrugged. "Big deal. Size doesn't necessarily equate with sophistication."
"Have you been to Tikal?"
"Don't have the time."
"Make the time. You might even learn something. For instance, did you know the tallest temple in the city was completed around 720 A.D. and soared well over 200 feet? It was the tallest man-made structure in the Americas, prior to the construction of skyscrapers in the late 1800s."
Monica knew she was wasting her time, but at least things had simmered down since they had moved outdoors for dinner. Earlier in the afternoon, her appre
hension had increased as the interrogation proceeded. Ken had become more threatening and belligerent with her every refusal. Thankfully, Liz had stepped in to calm the situation.
Ken leaned forward. "Do you realize that more than thirty-three million people are living with HIV?"
Monica shook her head. "I don't dispute what you're saying, but it doesn't alter the fact that your vaccine will never see the light of day."
"Eventually, you'll come around."
"I'm not referring to me. I'm talking about drug regulators. They'll never approve your vaccine for distribution or sale."
"They'll have to," he said, and then laughed. "The first mention of the disease appeared in a Centers For Disease Control report, released in June, 1981. They diagnosed HIV as a form of pneumonia. Can you believe it? Since then almost 65 million people have been infected."
"You're deluding yourself, Ken. The political optics that a patient undergoing treatment would become sexually aroused, makes the vaccine DOA at the FDA."
"We intend to eliminate or minimize the side effects of the vaccine. If we can't, the patient could be placed in isolation until the drug's side effect wore off."
"For how long?"
"We don't know yet. And what drug doesn't cause minor reactions?"
"Like Vioxx and heart attacks?"
"My point exactly. When the regulators pulled it from the market, they were catering to alarmists. Eighty million people took that drug. About a hundred thousand were thought to have had heart problems and of that, only about thirty percent were fatal. It's a small price to pay. A few lives lost to save millions."
"The FDA would never authorize a medication with that sort of side effect, no matter what the disease. But, you also mentioned something about a preventative measure?"
"Preliminary evidence suggests that there is a preventative component."
"At what age would children need to be inoculated?"
"Before they become sexually active."
"Do you honestly believe parents are going expose their children to a vaccination that will force them to engage in sexual activity?"
"Well, maybe not here, but Africa and Asia are possibilities. They start young over there."
"That's an incredibly racist statement!"
"How can you remain unmoved by statistics? By 2025 there could be up to 150 million deaths, half the population of the United States. Don’t those numbers mean anything to you?"
"They certainly do, but the most important number to me is three."
Ken looked at her with a perplexed expression. "Three?"
"If Amanda, Hilton and I are returned to Belize, then I'll do everything I can to help you."
"Now, who’s being treated like the village idiot? Once you're across the border, you’ll contact the authorities and develop a case of acute amnesia," Ken sneered.
Monica sensed Ken was on the verge of erupting again. She thought Liz must also have picked up on his anger because she slipped the revolver into her waistband, grabbed her beer and strode over to their table.
"Ken, could you please excuse us for a few minutes?"
Ken hesitated, then hammered the tabletop with his fist. "Five minutes." He picked up his drink and walked away, pacing, drinking and glaring at her.
Liz set her beer on the table. She pulled a chair closer to Monica and sat down.
Monica glowered at her and said, "I don’t want to hear any of this 'we’re both women' talk. Not when you help perpetuate his delusions to hold onto your job."
"It's not just about my job. Who knows what's possible? Ken can be very persuasive."
"You don't seriously believe that governments would certify this vaccine?"
Liz leaned closer and whispered, "The reason Ken is pushing you so hard is that his daughter has AIDS and is close to death. The man is beside himself."
"I'm sorry," Monica said in a more sympathetic tone.
"His daughter, Laura, contracted the disease through a blood transfusion in 1985. The heartbreaking aspect is that she received the transfusion only a few months before a test was approved, that screened all blood for HIV. In some ways I think Ken blames himself. He believes that he should have seen the breakthrough test coming."
Monica lifted a glass of water to her lips and took a sip.
Liz continued, "She's taking several anti-HIV drugs daily. The cocktail isn't a cure, but it's the best alternative to a vaccine that medicine has to offer. In the last few years the virus has become increasingly resistant to treatment. What would you do if it was Amanda?"
"Maybe the same thing as your boss, but I’m not in his situation. Unless the three of us are returned to Belize, you’ll get nothing from me."
Liz paused.
Monica sensed Liz was wavering. She had no idea how much influence Liz had with Ken, but suspected their relationship was more than one of merely employee - employer. Maybe they could come to an agreement. She felt sick at heart at the suffering of those infected with the disease, but she couldn’t back down until they were freed.
"Senator Guerra is scheduled to arrive in a few hours," Liz said.
"So?" Monica replied, surprised by the remark. She wondered where this conversation was leading. This had been the first mention of Guerra since leaving the prison farm.
"Ken doesn’t know anything about the killings in Belize."
Monica nodded. She understood Liz had started a countdown of sorts.
"Once the senator arrives, no witnesses go home - not you, not Amanda. Give Ken the formula before he gets here, and the two of you will be on your way to Belize."
"I told you I need my notes. Understanding and interpreting hieroglyphs is very tricky. And what about Hilton?"
"We’ll get to him, but first you need to agree to give Ken the formula."
"I've told you. The formula is at the resort in Belize. I don't know how to be any more explicit."
"You could go to the resort. Get the formula and the mug. As soon as you give them to Ken, you and Amanda high-tail it across the border into Belize. Does that sound like a plan?"
Monica shook her head. "Maybe, but I haven’t heard a word about Hilton."
"I’ll get Hilton freed somehow. I have a lot of connections in the Justice Department. Hell, I’ll break him out myself if I have to."
Monica pondered the offer. Did Liz seriously believe Ken would release them without first testing the formula?
She and Amanda were witnesses to the Altun Ha murders. Why would the senator or Liz, for that matter, risk letting them live? She felt her elbow being gently nudged and looked at Amanda.
The young girl gave an imperceptible shake of her head. Monica hugged her, overwhelmed by her bravery and maturity. Amanda had known all along they weren’t going home. In holding out, they were buying time. And with time, there was always hope.
Monica looked Liz straight in the eye. "I haven’t heard a word that’d lead me to believe you can live up to your end of the bargain. The answer is no."
"You're endangering Amanda’s life if you don’t."
"I’m endangering her life if I do."
Liz shrugged, stood and backed away. "I’ve done everything I can."
Ken stopped his unsteady pacing and stared at Monica and Amanda, then drunkenly lurched toward them. He put his rum and coke on the table, gripped Amanda’s arm and ripped her from Monica’s embrace.
Monica lunged for Ken as he backed away from the table. Blindly reaching for the girl, she slipped and tumbled to the cobblestones. Ken dragged Amanda toward the center of the courtyard, his left arm wrapped around her neck in a chokehold. His right hand dipped into his pocket and plucked out the glass vial.
There was the scrapping of a chair. Monica looked over to see Rick rocket to his feet, his face stricken with terror.
"Ken, what the hell are you doing?" Liz yelled, taking a step closer to her boss.
"Don’t even think about it," Ken snarled, lashing out at Liz with his free arm. "Get back."
She ret
reated a few steps.
Dazed, Monica staggered to her feet and watched Ken tighten his stranglehold. Amanda began to choke.
Glaring at Monica, Ken raised the vial to Amanda’s lips. "Give me the formula now, Dr. Fremont, or I’ll pour this down her throat, then turn her over to Lieutenant Diego and his men."
"If you continue with this madness," Liz exclaimed, "you're on your own, and I'll do everything I can to bring you down."
He ignored her and stared directly at Monica.
"You have no idea what rape does to a woman," Liz cried. "Especially to a teenager. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."
An evil grin spread across his lips, his eyes still on Monica. "What’s it going to be?"
Monica snatched the neck of the beer bottle and charged Ken, holding the bottle over her head like a club.
Lieutenant Diego leapt to his feet, his pistol aimed at her."No, Señora Fremont,"
She ignored the lieutenant's command and continued her assault. Ken kicked over a wrought-iron chair, toppling it into Monica's path. The heavy backrest slammed into her shins and knocked her off her feet. With everyone's attention directed at Monica, Rick was able to back into the shadows, unnoticed.
"Try that again," Ken said and flicked the red rubber stopper out of the vial.
The rubber cork popped out of the tube and hit the cobblestones, then bounced toward Liz, coming to a stop at her feet. She stooped and picked up the stopper.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Monica cried, "To even think of doing such a thing. How can you call yourself a scientist?"
Ken laughed. Pressing the vial to Amanda’s lips, he hissed, "If I don't get the formula now, your virgin princess will soon be performing acts that would make the Marquis de Sade blush."
26:
Santa Elena Prison Farm – Wednesday
Hilton glanced at Fidel's corpse before he gathered together his loot and sat back to take stock. During the trek across the prison yard earlier that morning, he vaguely recalled two cotton lumps lying in front of cell doors as well as a remark from the colonel about garbage being collected at night. Pedro wrapped in the mattress cover, the glimpse he had of the cemetery when he arrived at the prison, and his favorite childhood adventure story, The Count of Monte Cristo, planted the seed for his desperate escape. But for it to work, he had to be left undisturbed until the graveyard conscripts came to collect the trash.