A Cut Above (16 page)
She rises, drops her napkin on the table. “Good night.”
When she’s gone, I turn to Max. “Ready to make a break for it?”
He snorts. “Last time I saw Larry, Curly, and Moe, they were still hugging their guns. I don’t want to find myself at the business end of the barrel again.”
“You don’t think she’s just going to keep us around here like a pair of pet monkeys, do you?”
“Speak for yourself, Chimp—er . . . Champ.”
“You’re in fine form.”
“What else am I going to do? I can’t see you forking over the—”
“Oh my!” I say in a louder voice than necessary, my eyes wide, telegraphing—I hope—the need to keep his trap shut.
“I’m sooooo tired, Max. What a day, huh? I think I’m ready to hit the sack. G’night.”
He gives me a crooked grin, shrugs, takes my elbow, and leads me to the door. “Good night, Andie.”
“Good night, Max.”
We find Larry (or is this one Curly?) on the other side, his gun cradled in his arms. Without a word, the unmasked bandit leads us down the corridor. As we go past the courtyard, I look up at the stars in the inky sky.
Will I ever see any more than this small square of sky?
Are you going to get us back home, Lord?
I remember my promise to trust him. The rubber’s hit the road. Either I do or I don’t. I sigh.
With a last longing look at the twinkling stars, I open my bedroom door. The minute I’m safely on the inside of the room, our jailer locks me in.
Fear sends fingers through me again.
The light on the nightstand gives off a golden glow. That’s when I notice my nightgown draped across the foot of the bed. The thought of how many people have pawed through my things makes me cringe. I’d rather sleep in my clothes. I’ve never felt so vulnerable, not even when I sat for the better part of a night in a filthy jail in Srinagar or when a crazed murderer held me at gunpoint. A tear rolls down my face.
“Never again, Lord. Once you get me back there, I’m not leaving Louisville again.”
As easy as it was to fall asleep earlier in the afternoon, no matter how I try, I can’t get my eyelids to stick shut now. I fluff my bedding, punch my pillows, wiggle, toss, turn. Do it all again.
Nothing.
And praying? Well, even that’s become tough. My mind has discovered a heretofore unknown case of ADD or something like that. I can’t focus on anything, not even my love for the Lord. Too many stray rags of thought keep popping into my head.
I can’t help worrying about Aunt Weeby. That phone call . . . it frightened her. And my aunt is known for her . . . umm . . . insane reactions to fright. The last thing I want is for her to hop the next flight to Colombia and come look for me—us. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if anything were to happen to her. Especially if it happened because she was trying to help me.
“Lord . . . ? Help us, please, so she doesn’t think she has to.”
I flop over onto my other side. I still can’t believe I’m locked up in a room at a
hacienda
somewhere in Colombia. I mean, these things only happen in movies or in books. Not to plain, old gemologists from Louisville, Kentucky. Like me. Right?
Ah . . . well, I guess I’d better change that idea. These things didn’t used to happen to me. Not before I came to work for Miss Mona, that is. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame Miss Mona for any of the wacky things that have happened this last year. Not really. True, she does get these ideas . . . but it’s not as if she goes out of her way to come up with stuff that leads to danger or disaster.
That’s just what happens while I carry out her plans.
Trust me. I’m not the one with the ideas.
And when I get home? Neither will she
idea-ize
(yep, new word!) again.
I’ll make sure of it.
From now on, vendors will come to the S.T.U.D. to vend. I roll over onto my back. Stare up at the ceiling. Count the seconds oozing by.
Aaack!
I quit.
In a single, dramatic move, I toss off the lightweight sheet, totally frustrated with my inability to zonk out, and with a half twist, swing my feet over the bed and vault upright on to the floor. What good is it to be jailed in a luxe cell like this one, if you can’t even veg out for real? I mean, sawing logs and z’s and doing like Rip Van Winkle isn’t that tough, is it? It should happen just because it’s nighttime, I’m drained from what’s happened, and I
want
to sleep.
It’s understandable for my nerves to be on edge. There’s the memory of those machine guns prancing in the back of my head. And I’m being held against my will. But understanding isn’t accepting.
I start to pace the room, and come face to face with the shuttered window. It’s über-quaint, with its wooden shutters that open inward. While I hold no illusions of freedom, I’d rather look at the amazing endless night sky, with all the twinkling stars I remember from when I walked down the corridor by the courtyard, than at the quaint but uninteresting shutters. When I open them, a balmy breeze wafts in between the curving iron bars. If they weren’t jailing me, I would think them gorgeous, mysterious, exotic. Since they are, I don’t.
Propping my elbows on the deep windowsill, I plop my chin on the heels of my hands and stare out over the vast expanse of empty land. All that emptiness is unsettling.
Once again, the hysteria begins to work its way back up, and a hint of desperation joins it.
What am I going to do? I want out of this place. I can’t just sit here and watch the banana moon crawl across the black sky all night.
But what, Lord? What can I do? How
can I get out of here?
And Max . . . poor guy. He came to try and help. Here he is now, locked up just like me. Even if I could figure out a way to make a run for it, I can’t leave the guy behind.
Scritch . . . scritch . . . scri-scritch—scritch!
I spin around, heart thudding, throat tight. Someone’s at my bedroom door.
Oh, help!
Determined not to just wimp out and let the inevitable happen, I dig deep for some bravado. “Stop! Don’t even try it.”
To my horror, the door swings open. So much for my bravado. I back up against the window wall. That hysteria? Well, it’s hit full blast.
My goose is cooked, as we say in the South.
A large black shadow slithers into the room. My head spins and I fight to draw a breath. And here I thought Doña Rosario had meant it when she’d said I wasn’t any good to her dead. Or maybe she sent her goon to torture the emeralds from me . . .
Instead of charging me, the shadow waves me over. “Come on, already!”
“Huh?”
“Stop with the ‘huh,’ Andie,” Max mutters. “Let’s get out of here before that crazy woman or one of her lackeys comes and finds us.”
Am I actually sleeping—dreaming? “Max?”
“Of course it’s me. Who’d you expect? Santa Claus?”
“Bu—but how? How’d you get a key to my room? Or to yours?”
A big hand claps around my wrist. “I didn’t. I palmed a fork during dinner, then picked the locks. Anything in your suitcase you can’t live without? If there is, then you’d better get it now. We’re out of here.”
So the guy’s got hidden talents. Picking locks, eh? I’ll have to think about that—later, of course. I glance out the open window again and take another gander at the rough landscape. “My sneakers.”
I slip my feet into the comfortable, beat-up running shoes I always take with me, no matter where in the world I travel. Then, without bothering to tie the laces, I head for the door.
“Whoa!” Max says. “What about the—”
“Don’t even think it. This isn’t the time or place, okay?”
The weak light from the moon outside illuminates his face. I see the questions in his eyes. But then he shakes his head and only holds out his hand. I place mine in his, and we slip out of the room. Without making a sound, we hurry down the dark, empty corridor.
At the magnificent double mahogany front doors of the house, Max presses a finger to his lips, then pulls something— probably the purloined fork—out of his pants pocket. He crouches, fiddles with it and the old-fashioned lock; I hear again the
scritch
,
scritch
,
scritch
I’d heard from inside my room. A handful of seconds later, the click of the opened lock echoes in the silent night.
Who would’a thunk? Max the Midnight Man. Hmm . . .
“Shh!”
He grabs my hand to drag me out behind him . . . and right into the waiting arms of Doña Rosario’s goons. Well, two of them have empty, waiting arms. The other one has, of course, the ever-present machine gun at the ready.
In the resulting scuffle, I get dinged, danged, and bruised, but not nearly as much, I’m sure, as Max. Those hard thuds can only be the sounds of a fistfight. And while I know Max is tall, strong, and in great shape, he can’t be any match for two against one. In the end, we get hauled away like ornery mules, digging in our heels, fighting every inch of the way.
That’s when I start praying again. I hope Max is doing the same. You know, that “two or more gathered in his name” Scripture. We need the Lord’s presence in this mess if we’re ever going to have any hope of getting out of it. Oh yeah.
Something close to a miracle’s what’s going to have to happen. And I’ve never seen anything in the Bible about the Lord getting out of the miracle business.
On our way to wherever, I look at the sky, to both sides, out to the black horizon. I even throw a look back at the house. Most of all, I keep darting glances toward poor Max. One goon has his right arm twisted up his back in a visibly painful angle, while the other holds the machine gun’s barrel maybe an inch, no more than two, away from his temple.
Please, Lord, don’t let him try to be a hero. These monsters
mean business. And I don’t want him hurt. I want . . .
I haven’t even told him—
Right then, in the most ridiculous, dangerous situation imaginable, I realize how deeply I do care for Max. I don’t want him hurt, no matter what. More important, however, is my deeper reason why. I don’t want him hurt because I haven’t been able to tell him how much I do care. Here, in the clutches of a trio of emerald thieves, I find myself at the point where I’m willing to bare my heart and let things land where they may.
Am I weird or what? What other woman realizes she’s honest-to-goodness falling in love with a man—
the
single, solitary, most impossible man possible—at the time when they’re both about to be snuffed out?
Because my epiphany leaves me so discombobulated, I don’t see the the steel door of some outbuilding until I’m smack up against the stupid thing. Panic bubbles up in me, as does a scream, but I realize that if I were to make so much noise, it would only enrage our captors. Not something I really want to do. Even if a scream would let me release some of the tension stuffed to bursting inside me.
The door clangs open. I’m thrust into the thick, tarry blackness within, then shoved farther along. The sound of something heavy being dragged fills the room. Seconds later, I’m pushed forward again. This time, the bottom falls out. I drop . . . down, down, down . . .
THUMP!
I don’t land gracefully, but painfully. Seconds later, another
THUMP
strikes inches away. Max, I’m sure, even though I can’t see a thing. It’s lightless, thick, black, and impenetrable in here.
I check all my limbs and find them, while sore, still functional. I register no movement from Max. With every bit of my body screaming against the effort, I drag myself to his side.
“Max! Are you okay?”
“I’m . . . alive.”
“Barely, from the sound of it.” I reach out to him. “Do you think you broke anything?”
A rough sound I think he means as a laugh grates in the smothering silence. “Maybe it’s more like . . . if there’s anything . . . they didn’t break.”
“Oh, Max . . .” I reach out, come up against warm, cotton-covered human, an arm. “I couldn’t see what they were doing to you, but it sounded awful. They must have been brutal in those few minutes.”
“They were . . . but I wasn’t going . . . easy, either.”
As I flounder for something to say, I sense a rustle, movement. And not so far away. Nor from above. Only a few feet away.
I gasp. “Max . . . we’re not alone.”
“Hello?” a young female voice calls out, weak and reedy.
I scoot closer to Max. I don’t know if it’s to protect him or to suck up some comfort from his nearness. I do know I appreciate the warmth of his bulk at my side. “Wh–who are you?”
“Laura . . . Laura Cruz.”
Cruz!
A bad feeling lands in my gut. “Are you related to Rodolfo Cruz, the emerald vendor?”
“My father . . .”
Oh, Lord Jesus . . . that woman is beyond insane. She’s
evil, pure evil. Help us, Father—help
me
help these two. It’s
obvious they’re both hurt.
“What did they do to you, Laura?”
“I was out shopping,” she murmurs in perfect English. “Two men were waiting at the door . . . they pushed me into a car . . .”
Her voice grows fainter with every word.
“They didn’t—” I catch myself; I can’t even voice some of the horrors that occur to me. “I mean, how did they hurt you?”
“They didn’t. I fell down on my leg. I think it’s broken.”
I crawl toward through the darkness toward Laura, guided by her voice. Is there anything I can do to ease her obvious pain?
Oh, Father! How am I going to get a girl with a
broken leg and poor, beat-up Max out of here? There’s just
one of me.
“Hey!” Max’s voice cuts into my prayer. “I’m okay. Just give me a little while to shake off the soreness.”
“But, Max—”
“But nothing. I’ll be fine. And you don’t have to worry. We’re going to be okay. We’re getting out of here.”
“Oh, really, now. And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because I trust God.”
That zips me up. I do trust God. I just don’t trust an emerald-hungry madwoman who surrounds herself with brutes and their ugly machine guns. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. We’re going to get out of here. But for us to be able to do that, we need to be in as good a shape as possible. We should all try to sleep.”
