Where There's Smoke (55 page)

"Okay."
 
Since she had to alight before he could, she reached for the door.

"Wait."
 
He sat tense and still, his eyes sweeping the black curtain of darkness outside the airplane.
 
"I want to see who our welcoming committee is."

They sat in silence.
 
Behind them, the six torches, three on each side of the landing strip, were extinguished one by one.

Key kept his right hand on her knee.
 
With his left, he reached for the handgun beneath his seat.
 
He'd told her it was a Beretta 9mm.
 
He slid back the top, automatically loading the first bullet into the chamber.

It was now cocked and ready to fire.

"Key!"

"We're sitting ducks.
 
I'm not going to be snuffed out without putting up at least token resistance."

"But-" He held up his hand for silence.
 
She heard it, too an approaching vehicle.
 
Looking back, she saw a jeep emerging from the darkness and slowly taking shape.
 
It pulled up behind the aircraft and stopped.
 
The driver stepped out and moved toward the plane.

Key aimed the Beretta at the shadow figure.

Lara released a gasp of relief.
 
"It's Father Geraldo.
 
He's alone."

"1 hope to hell he is."

Lara opened her door and gingerly stepped out of the plane, climbing down using the footholds in the wing.
 
"Father Geraldo," she said as she jumped to the ground.
 
"Thank God you're here."

He extended his hands.
 
"Indeed.
 
It's good to see you again, Mrs.

Porter."

She extended her hand, and he enfolded it in a warm, damp clasp.

"You're looking well," she said.

"And you."

"Have you learned anything about where my daughter is buried?"

"I'm afraid not.
 
I've made inquiries, but to no avail.
 
I'm sorry."

The news was disappointing but not surprising.
 
"I knew it wasn't going to be easy."Just then Key stepped off the wing.
 
"This is Key Tackett."

"Father," he said in a clipped voice.
 
"Thanks for sending those coordinates.
 
Without them, we'd never have found you."

"I'm glad they were useful."

"Are you sure you weren't followed?"

"Reasonably sure."

Key frowned.
 
"Well, let's get this baby out of sight before we attract company.

"I assure you," the priest said, "for the time being, we're safe."

"I don't like to take chances.
 
Which way?"

"Because of the revolution, the drug traffic has slacked off considerably.
 
The strip hasn't been used in a while.
 
I brought along a machete, and while I was waiting for you I cleared out some brush."

He indicated what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of jungle.

"Let's get to it."

After hacking away some of the densest brush, the three pushed the airplane off the landing strip.
 
They retrieved the few items they'd brought with them, including the hidden rifle, then covered the plane with the brush.

"This is a remote spot,
 
the priest said to Key, who was surveying the camouflaged aircraft from every angle.
 
"Even in daylight I don't think it'll be detected.
 
Allow me, Mrs.
 
Porter."

He picked up Lara's duffel and the camera bag and headed for the jeep.

Hoisting his own duffel and the rifle to his shoulder, Key spoke to Lara in an undertone.

"You failed to mention that the padre is a drunk."

"He's been conducting Mass.
 
That's sacramental wine on his breath."

"Like hell.
 
It's Jamaican rum.
 
I've vomited up enough of it to know how it smells."

"Then you're in no position to judge."

"I don't care if he guzzles horse piss, so long as he's reliable."

Before she could defend the charge, they reached the jeep.
 
Father Geraldo, who wore his forty years as though they were sixty, helped Key stow their gear in the back.
 
"If you don't mind riding back here, it will be more comfortable for Mrs.
 
Porter in front."

"I don't mind," Key said, easily swinging himself up into the backseat.

"From here I can guard our rear.

"Well said."
 
The priest smiled at him.
 
"We live in turbulent times."

"Right.
 
Over drinks some time I'd love to philosophize with you.

Now, I think we'd better relocate.
 
Pronto."

If the priest took umbrage at Key's reference to drinks, he didn't show it.
 
After assisting Lara into the passenger seat, he climbed behind the steering wheel.
 
"Best to leave the lights off until we approach the city.
 
The roads are sometimes patrolled at night."

"By whom?"
 
Key wanted to know.

"By whoever wants to patrol them.
 
It changes on a daily basis."

"What's the political climate like now?"
 
Lara asked.

"Volatile."

"Terrific," Key muttered.

"The old regime wants to regain control.
 
President Escavez is still in hiding, but rumor is that he's trying to assemble an army and reclaim his office."

"The rebels won't allow it without a bloodbath," Lara said.

"No doubt," the priest agreed, "but Esca'ver isn't their primary concern.
 
He believes the people still love him, but he's wrong.
 
No one wants to return to the days of his despotism before the revolution.

He's just an old man deluding himself, more a nuisance than a threat.

The rebels have bigger problems to worry about."

"Such as?"
 
Key asked.
 
He'd worked up a sweat swinging the machete and moving the plane.
 
He removed his shirt and used it to mop his face, neck, and throat.
 
Lara envied him that freedom.
 
She was sweltering.

Her blouse clung to her skin.

"Lack of money is their primary problem," the priest replied to Key's question.
 
"Lack of supplies.
 
Lack of zeal.
 
The men are disenchanted.

After living in armed camps in the jungle for years, revolution isn't nearly as exciting as it seemed in the beginning.

"They're tired of fighting, but they fear their leaders too much to return home.
 
They're hungry, diseased, and homesick.
 
Some haven't seen their families since Esca'ver was overthrown.
 
They hide in the jungle and come out only to wreak havoc on small villages and scavenge for food.
 
Mostly they fight among themselves.
 
Since Jorge Perez Martinez was assassinated-" "He was?
 
We didn't hear about that in the States," Lara said, surprised.
 
Perez had been a general in Esca'ver's army who had staged the military coup to overthrow him.
 
The rebels had regarded him as a savior of an oppressed people.

"He was killed by one of his own men more than a year ago," the priest told her.
 
"For months the leadership was up for grabs.
 
First one lieutenant, then another proclaimed himself Perez's successor, but none could hold the rebels together.
 
There were many factions with no cohesiveness.
 
As a result, the counterrevolutionaries, among them Escavez, began to make inroads.

"Then, one of Perez's protege's emerged and declared himself the new general of the rebel army.
 
Over the last several months he's gained support, I think chiefly because his men fear him.
 
He's supposedly ruthless and will stop at nothing to cement his position as leader.

Corazon del Diahlo.
 
The Devil's Heart.
 
That's what they call him."

He glanced sideways at Lara.
 
"He passionately hates Americans."

Saying anything more would have been superfluous.
 
She looked back at Key to find his eyes on her, piercing and intent.
 
"It's no worse than we expected," she said defensively.

"No better, either."

"I brought some clothes," Father Geraldo said, gesturing at the soft bundle at Lara's feet.
 
"Before we reach the outskirts of the city, you'd better put them on."

They'd been following a rutted dirt road that snaked through the jungle, seemingly without destination.
 
Each time a night bird screeched, Lara's skin broke out in goose bumps, though the humidity was stifling.
 
Her hair felt heavy on her neck, more so when she placed a scratchy scarf over her head as was customary of the matrons of Montesangre, except for the progressive generation of women who fought alongside their male comrades in arms.

In the bundle of clothing she also found a shapeless cotton print dress.
 
She gathered it into her hands and stepped into it, working it up her legs and over her hips before placing her arms through the sleeves.
 
She tied it at her waist with a sash.

For Key the priest had brought the muslin tunic and pants of a farmer and a straw hat.
 
As he placed it on his head, the jeep topped a hill.

Ciudad Central was spread out below them, a blanket of twinkling lights.

At the sight of the city she despised, fear and loathing filled Lara's heart.
 
If she'd had a choice at that moment, she might have given up her insane objective and returned to the airplane.
 
But somewhere in that urban sprawl her daughter was buried.

As though sensing her trepidation, Father Geraldo pulled the jeep to a halt.
 
"What you intend to do will be extremely dangerous, Mrs.

Porter.

Perhaps you should reconsider."

"I want my daughter."

Father Geraldo engaged the gears and switched on the headlights.

They started down the curving road.
 
The narrow shoulder dropped off into nothingness.
 
Fearfully Lara wondered how much rum Father Geraldo had consumed that evening.
 
Whenever the wheels sank into the soft shoulder, she gripped the edge of her seat.

As it turned out, the condition of the road and Father Geraldo's level of inebriation were inconsequential.
 
As they came around a bend, they were impaled by blinding spotlights and deafened by a chorus of shouting voices.
 
"Alto!"

A platoon of guerrillas surged forward to surround them, guns aimed and ready to fire.

Chapter TWENTY' ey tJod knocked on Janellen's bedroom door.

"Mama?"

Jody opened the door but remained standing on the threshold.

She didn't remember the last time she'd been in Janellen's room, and some of the furnishings were unfamiliar to her.
 
However, she recognized the cherrywood fourposter bed, chest of drawers, and dresser; they'd belonged to her daughter since she graduated from the crib.

The drapes and wallpaper were new, or at least it seemed they were.

The pale gold and china-blue print combinations were too festive and feminine for her taste.
 
She vaguely recalled granting Janellen permission to redecorate but couldn't remember when that had been.