ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (19 page)

With the beat of his heart pounding
in his ears, Zac waited a few seconds to make sure the first mate had gone
before searching for Jackson.
Where could he be?
The stateroom wasn’t big
enough to hold many hiding places.

He checked the trunk first. Nope,
not there. The only other place he could think of was the shower stall. With
the door open, it was almost hidden. That had to be it—he’d plastered himself
against the wall. Zac crossed the room and looked inside. All he found was the
drip of a leaky showerhead.

That’s when panic set in.
Where
the hell was he?
He had to be around there somewhere. He was about to
search the galley, the captain’s stateroom, the saloon—even the engine room,
when a cabinet door slowly opened and his brother unfolded onto the floor.

“What the hell?” Zac said, his
voice louder than he intended. Then in a stage whisper, he added, “You scared
the pants off me.”

Jackson gave him a shit-eating
grin. “I was on the bed when I heard you guys coming. It was the closest place
I could think to hide. Good thing I’m so limber.”

Zac nodded. “There’s some food.
It’s probably cold, but better than nothing.”

Jackson didn’t need to be told a
second time. He spooned the stew, sopping up the remnants with chunks of bread.
“That guy’s a good cook,”

“You’re right, but anything would
taste good to you about now.” Zac watched as his brother finished eating.
“Look, we gotta talk. Cover yourself part way in case one of them pokes their nose
in.”

When Jackson was settled, Zac
continued. “Tomorrow around noon, we dock at Ambergris Caye where Leon’s
contact gets the trunk. After that, it’ll be up to me to find you— and Izzie,
assuming she’s still in Belize.” Heaving a heavy sigh, Zac hesitated, then
said, “Look, Jackson, why don’t we just ditch this whole thing? We could load
the trunk with something heavy, and get away before they realize you’re gone.”

“What about Izzie? Do we just give
up on her? Let her rot in some hellhole for the rest of her life? That what
you’re
sayin
’?”

“Jackson, I don’t know how this is
gonna turn out. What if I can’t find you? Then what?”

“Then I’ll just have to deal with
it, won’t I?”

Zac noticed Jackson’s chin go firm,
the way it always did when he’d made up his mind about something. Once that
happened, he realized there was nothing he could say or do to change it. He
reached in his pocket and handed Jackson the pocketknife his dad had given him
when he graduated high school. Since it was the only thing he had from his
father, he treasured it and always carried it with him. 

“Here, take this—use it then call
my cell and I’ll come get you. Meantime I’ll do everything I can to find you.”
His voice trembled, he swallowed and lowered his head. “But in case I can’t…”

Jackson patted his hand. “It’s all
right, I know. I love you too. If I don’t make it, tell Mom I love her.”

Blinking back tears, Zac said,
“I’ll get you out of this if it’s the last thing I do.”

With nothing more to say, they hugged
for the first time since they were kids. Zac hoped against hope things would
turn out all right. 

The following day
shortly after noon, Zac tried to control his emotions as two men loaded the
steamer trunk into their van. He’d never felt more helpless and alone in his
life. What if this went sideways and he never saw his brother again? How could
he live with the guilt he’d feel? Or face their mother?

He stuffed the
envelope in his pocket as the van drove away. Fifteen-hundred dollars. That’s
all Jackson’s life was worth to them. He’d counted it to make sure. No point
discovering after the fact that they’d stiffed Leon. He wondered if he’d gotten
more for Izzie.

As the van drove
away, Zac tried to get a look at the license plate, but it was covered in mud.
He pulled out his cellphone and discovered too late that it was dead.
So
much for that plan.

With a sinking
heart, he picked up his belongings and hailed a cab for the drive to San Pedro,
the island’s only town. His first order of business was to find a place to
stay.

****

It took some
doing, but Zac found a room he could afford off the beaten track. It was more a
hole in the wall than anything. He’d had a hard time convincing the taxi driver
he wasn’t interested in a fancy resort. The man finally understood and
deposited him on Buccaneer, just off Pescador Drive. The place was run down
with peeling wallpaper, filthy curtains and reeked of cigarette smoke. But the
price was right and the bed looked, well…it was a bed.

After settling in,
Zac decided to look around. It didn’t take a genius to see that San Pedro was
like many beach towns: there were magnificent places fronting the ocean with
lush lawns and palm trees, while a block away ordinary people eked out livings
selling everything from souvenirs to daily necessities.

The atmosphere
reminded him of a bustling fishing village but with "hot spots" of
entertainment. As he wandered about, he noticed wooden houses, some were
decorated in Mexican style while others sported a Caribbean flavor. There were
gift shops, boutiques, bars, cafes, and restaurants up and down both Barrier
Reef and Pescador Drives. Zac could sense the friendliness of the people even
though he hadn’t walked very far.

 
Beach attire being the norm,
Zac felt right at home in flip-flops and cargo shorts. The aroma of food from
street vendors reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His initial
fear of contracting some kind of tropical bug was quickly replaced by his
gnawing hunger.

Every variety of
fried meat from recognizable items such as burgers, hot dogs and chicken to the
more exotic was available. Zac chose food he was familiar with. No sense taking
a chance and getting laid up for the next twenty-four hours puking his guts
out.

He had asked the
cabbie where to go for a good time. He’d stressed
good time
hoping the
man took him to mean
easy sex
. He’d suggested Lil’ Mo’s over on Barrier
Reef Drive. The cabbie said San Pedro had around ninety
ficha
bars.

When he asked what
the word
ficha
meant the guy shrugged and
laughed. Zac wasn’t sure, but he thought it meant girls were available and if
that was the case, they were widely available on this island of only about
12,000 people. There were prostitutes servicing money-rich tourists, but were
they doing it to earn money—or to stay alive?

He didn’t know if
Izzie and Jackson were destined to work in one of those bars or would be
shipped somewhere else, in which case he—and they—were screwed big time. He
also didn’t know how to go about finding them or where to begin.

Maybe he should
start at Lil’ Mo’s. The cabbie had enthusiastically recommended that place.
With some ninety bars to choose from, why had he pushed that particular one?
Was he getting a kickback? Zac recalled the man had said to tell the guy at the
door that Rollie recommended he go there. That must be it. Mo’s was probably no
different than any other bar, just more PR savvy.

Back in his room,
Zac took a shower and changed clothes. He’d have to look somewhat presentable
if he was to have any luck at all. It was a little after nine when he left his
room and strolled down the street. Crowds of what he assumed were tourists
swarmed the area to spend the evening pursuing what in the way of entertainment
local establishments had to offer.

For Zac, the scene
was more than a little overwhelming. Not only was he not there in pursuit of
pleasure, he wasn’t accustomed to nightlife on this scale. Iowa roots and his
small-town upbringing hadn’t included experiences such as this.

As he stood trying
to get the lay of the land, he was drawn to a place that seemed to vibrate with
rhythmic drumming and chanting. He let his feet decide for him. Once inside he
discovered a cacophony of sound, color and writhing bodies. Everyone seemed
taken up with dancing, chanting the refrain, “Tonight’s gonna be a good night”.

The pulsing beat
found its way into his head almost forcing his participation. Lasers and a
light show in the semi-darkened room added to the unrelenting celebration. In
spite of himself, Zac began to sway in time with the rhythm.

He enjoyed dancing
and was tempted to kick back and join in, but he couldn’t—not now, not here.
Unlike the other bar patrons, he had more important things on his mind. His was
a mission that was literally a matter of life or death. He found a spot at the
bar and sat down.

“Something to
drink?” The bartender, a man of about forty with dark black hair threaded with
gray, gave him a friendly smile.

“I’ll have a
beer.”

“Lager or Stout?”

The music was deafening.
He had a hard time understanding the man. He finally figured it out and said,
“Lager.”

A few moments
later the bartender slid a bottle of
Belikin’s
Lager
across the bar. The label boasted it was “Belikin – the beer of Belize”. With a
slightly sweet taste and clean finish, Zac found it refreshing.

Fifteen minutes
later, noticing the empty bottle the man asked Zac if he wanted another.

Shaking his head
no, Zac said, “Where would I go to, uh, you know…?” Unused to seeking the
services of prostitutes, he had difficulty getting the words out.

The bartender’s
expression said he disapproved, making Zac regret having asked. “We’re not that
kind of place. You need to go down the street for that.”

Humiliated, Zac’s
appetite for the pounding music evaporated. He took his leave, not knowing
where his next stop would be. Wandering aimlessly down Pescador, trying not to
descend into despair, he wondered where in this seething mass of tourists he
could possibly find Jackson and Izzie. And…and even if he did locate them, then
what?
How do you rescue a slave?

The very word sent
shivers down his spine. And yet, that’s exactly what he was dealing with.
Slavery. They’d been sold into slavery and it was up to him to get them
out—somehow. Maybe that was the key. If they’d been sold, he’d buy them back.

But how? With
what? There was that fifteen hundred dollars the man had given him for Jackson.
He could use it to try to buy them back. They would want more and he’d be in
deep shit with Leon, but he was in deep shit regardless, so it was worth a try.

He glanced around.
The bartender had said to go down the street to find a
ficha
bar. So that’s what he’d do. At least it would be a place to start.

Entering an
unremarkable place, Zac felt less intimidated than before. It was as different
from the nightclub with its body-to-body dancers as Tampa was from Iowa. He
found a table in the back and sat down. A band played with the now-familiar
drummers tapping out Caribbean rhythms. Patrons here were more subdued, perhaps
they were locals out for an evening. A young woman approached. She wore a
provocative outfit and a plastered-on smile.

“What would you
like to drink?”

Zac decided to
stick with a now-familiar brand. “
Belikin’s
Lager,”
he said.

When the girl
returned with his drink, Zac cleared his throat. “How would I go about, you
know, getting the company of a woman for a few hours?” This time he managed to
get the question out without feeling embarrassed.

The girl didn’t
miss a beat. “I can help you with that,” she said. “Take your drink and follow
me.”

She led him
halfway down a long hall, stopped and knocked on a closed door. A soft voice
inside said, “Come in.”

“I believe this is
what you’re looking for,” she said. “Have a good time.” Then excusing herself,
she left Zac to negotiate the details for himself.

Not knowing what
to expect, Zac felt as awkward as an adolescent at his first dance. He’d had
sex many times before, but this was different. He always had at least a passing
acquaintance with his partner and he’d never had to pay for it. The heat of a
blush crawled up his neck and onto his cheeks.

When he entered
the room, he was shocked to see that the girl appeared to be only around twelve
or thirteen.
Holy crap, she’s just a kid.

Dressed in a
flimsy negligee, she reached out her arms and, with a smile that seemed painted
on her face, said, “Take off your clothes, I make you happy.”

Suddenly Zac was
nauseous as he sat on the edge of the bed. The room was dimly lit, making it
hard to see. “How much for fifteen minutes?” he said, holding up ten fingers
and then five more.

“Twenty dollars,
twenty minutes. Take clothes off now.”

“No, I want to
talk. Will you talk to me?”

“Pay—I do whatever
you want.”

Zac pulled out a
twenty dollar bill. The young girl’s face lit up.

“What you want to
talk about?”

Not knowing where
to start and realizing there was no time to waste for fear he’d be found out,
Zac dove right in. “Where do I go to buy a girl—or guy?”

The young girl’s
forehead wrinkled. “Buy? Like now?”

“No.
Buy.
Take
with me.” He walked his fingers across the girl’s lap.

She thought for a
minute, then as if a light bulb went off inside her head, she said, “Oh, you
want to keep?”

Zac nodded. “Yes.
How do I do that?”

“Mo’s. Go there.
That’s where people go to
buy
.” As she said it, tears welled in her
eyes. She blinked them back, hastily wiping away the few that managed to
escape.

“Thank you.” Zac
realized he hadn’t asked her name. He pulled out a second twenty and in a low
voice, almost a whisper, said, “Keep this for yourself. Don’t tell them you
have it.”       

The young girl’s
face was transformed as she smiled. “You buy
me.
I go with you.
Please?
”

Zac took both her
hands into his. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I have to find my friends and get
them out.” When she gave him an uncomprehending look, he repeated, “You
know—friends out?” He put his hand on his heart and then made a fly-away
gesture. “Out.”

She nodded then
said. “Come back for me.” And mimicked his heart-gesture. “Get Josie out too.
I’m Josie.”

He got up to leave
but before he reached the door, a rough-looking man stuck his head in and
glanced around. “Everything all right in here? She give you a good time?”

Zac wanted to
punch the creep and keep hitting him until he was as broken and bloody as he’d
no doubt left this child on more than one occasion. Instead, his fists clenched
he said, “Yeah, she sure did.” He added under his breath, “Bastard.”

As he left the bar
filled with male patrons his heart sank. Josie had a long, painful night ahead
of her. He had visions of grabbing her along with the other young girls in that
place and running like hell out of there, but with only fifteen hundred dollars
in his pocket and two special people in trouble, he realized there wasn’t a
thing he could do.