"Steve, I'll bet you anything that's where she is." Saying it, I had a vision of all the things that had happened to me, and to Sarah, because of Alex Goddard. I couldn't wait to confront the bastard. "He's brought her back."
Steve just glared at me for a long moment, despairing.
"Christ, you make me nuts. Okay, look, how about this? At least let me come with you. That way we'll face the unknown together."
Though I had a lump-in-the-throat moment, I didn't say anything, just stood there glorying in the feeling of being together. It was so wonderful to have him with me and so difficult to think about pressing on without him.
There was a long, awkward pause, and then he glanced at his watch. "Blast, I've got to hit the road if I'm going to get back in time to set up for tonight's shoot. I just pray I can beat the rain." Then he pulled me around and circled me fully in his arms. "Please, Morgy, I really don't like the sound of this. I'll move heaven and earth to get back here by Friday night, and if you still want to check out this 'Baalum' place, then we'll figure out a way to do it together."
"Just you stay safe." I hugged him back. "Nothing I do is going to mean much if I don't have you. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
Alan Dupre had abruptly taken an even deeper interest in the darkening sky. I got the feeling he was uncomfortable being around two people capable of caring.
"It's only for a couple of days," Steve went on. "We'll both be okay if we just stick together."
"Right," I said, and kissed him harder than I ever had.
Five minutes later, my heart and my head still at war with each other, I was alone in the virtually empty park with my brand-new best friend. Watching Steve's Jeep blend into the smoggy haze of the avenue made me feel like half of me had just disappeared into another dimension.
"So that's that," I declared finally, turning back and taking a deep breath. I had to find Sarah before something else truly horrible happened to her. And the one thing I was determined to do was keep Steve as safely distant from my search as I could, even though it meant I was going to be terribly lonely for the next few days. "When can we leave?"
"Hey, get real." Dupre choked, whirling around. "We can't go today. Case you hadn't noticed, there's a storm coming. If you really want to go . . . and I mean really want to, then maybe in a day or so. Preferably when Steve—"
"I don't want to drag him into this," I said evenly. Truthfully, I was sounding braver than I felt. But then I remembered once going down into the four-hundred-year-old subterranean harem quarters of the Red Fort in Agra, seemingly miles underground and pitch black, with nothing but a flashlight, surrounded by screaming bats and knee-deep in guano, for no better reason than I was determined to see how the women there once lived. So how much scarier could this be?
"Well, I say no way," Dupre told me. "Not today. Correction, make that no fucking way." He had removed his aviator shades and was cleaning them with a dirty hanky. "Besides, I don't think you have any business going up there in the first place. If you're not scared shitless, you ought to be."
"Alan, I think you 're the one who's afraid to go."
He almost reached for another cigarette, but then stopped himself. "I will definitely plead guilty to a deep-seated disquiet about the people who rule this placid paradise. But if it'll square things with Steve, then I'll take you up to have a quick look, for my sins. But it's got to be after the weather clears."
I finally realized he was already thinking about his next loan. Steve, beware.
"Tomorrow then?" I wasn't going to blink, because the Peten was where Sarah had ended up the first time and I was sure that was where Ramos had taken her now. Baalum.
Dupre stared at the sky a moment longer, then caved. "Maybe we can shoot for tomorrow late. If I can convince myself this storm has done its worst." He looked back at me. "But I gotta tell you one thing, Ms. Morgan James. We blunder in up there and end up getting ourselves 'disappeared,' we won't even get our pictures in the papers. You'd better tell your immediate loved ones where you're going, and it wouldn't be the worst time in the world to think about making a will."
The way he said it, I was sure for once he meant every word.
When I got back to the Camino Real, the time was early afternoon and the bed was freshly made, with all signs and scents of my and Steve's torrid reunion long gone. I tried to push aside thoughts of how much I was already missing him and focus on what I was getting myself into. I must admit I was having serious qualms about going up to the Peten, the part of Guatemala where Sarah had been left for dead, with my brand-new tour director, the flaky Alan Dupre. I'd never been in a helicopter before, much less one flying over a stormy rain forest. On the other hand, if that was where they'd taken Sarah, the sooner I got there, the better.
Sitting there in the room, I found myself feeling right at home: Everything about it was so familiar to an expert on budget travel like me. Off-brand carpet the color of decaying vegetation, the usual two double beds (one totally unused, except as a suitcase shelf), the TV suspended over the dresser and bolted to the wall. Funny, but it was the first time I'd noticed half the things in the room.
Okay, I told myself, the thing to do first is call St. Vincent's and check on Lou. Also, I wanted to tell him what was happening. I just hoped he wouldn't launch into a lecture about the recklessness of what I was planning. I needed support, not male advice.
I got the desk to give me the local AT&T contact number,
then rang right through to St. Vincent's. The next thing I knew, they were calling his room.
"Hi. How's the patient?"
"Morgan, what the hell are you up to? I've been trying to reach you. I finally called David and he said you'd left a message; something about Central America. Why the hell—?"
"I was trying to explain that to you Sunday night, but you were pretty far gone."
"Well, I ain't that far gone now, so I'm telling you to—"
"By the way," I interrupted, hoping to change the subject, "how're you feeling?"
"I guess I'll live. They let me get up and go to the bathroom now. They're saying I can probably go home tomorrow."
"That's encouraging." Thank God he was going to be okay.
"I also had a talk with Gerry, downtown. He believes Sarah was kidnapped, even if New York's Finest don't, so that means the FBI has jurisdiction. We're gonna get some action. They're trying to get a photo of that colonel, so maybe I can ID the bastard. But the consulate's giving us a lot of shit about it."
"Well, I'm tracking something down here. Between the two of us, I think we'll find her."
"So, what the hell are you doing?"
I told him about finding the name of a destination on Sarah's old landing card, and about meeting a guy who was going to take me there as soon as the weather cleared.
"And you think she could be there now?" He didn't sound hopeful.
"There're reasons to check it out." I didn't want to elaborate. "Maybe we'll get lucky."
I was attempting to say as little as possible, fearing the phone was tapped. In that spirit, I decided to get off the line as quickly as possible.
"Lou, you get lots of rest, and I'll try and call you tomorrow."
With a final warning to watch out for myself, he took down my hotel number and hung up. Truthfully, he was sounding pretty tired and weak, not nearly his old self.
Well, he had a right to be. But at least there were no complications.
My next call was going to be to David Roth, to check in on things at Applecore, but first I wanted to order up some huevos rancheros, get some breakfast protein. I was becoming energized by the prospect of progress, and being that way always makes me ravenous. It's probably a primal female response that has a Latin name.
I checked out the number for room service, and was literally reaching for the black phone when it rang of its own accord. Startled I picked up the receiver, wondering who had my number.
"Hello." It was a man's voice that sounded vaguely familiar. "Thought I'd check in and see how things are going with your search."
"Hi," I answered back after a pause, trying to place his intonation.
"Oh, sorry. Barry Morton. Remember me? Fortress America. You came by the office yesterday."
"How . . . ?" Why was he calling me? "How did you get this—?"
"You must have accidentally put the wrong hotel on your landing card as your address in Guatemala City." He hesitated a second then said "But I had my secretary call around and . . . well, it happens all the time."
"I see." It did have the ring of logic. And I had put down a different hotel. A safety measure. "Do you always take this much . . . interest in your fellow citizens?"
"Only when they come to see me personally." He chuckled. "So how's it going?"
"Well, thanks for calling," I said. "Everything's moving along."
"Good, good." There was another pause, then, "Incidentally, you having any luck finding that Ninos del Mundo place you were looking for?"
I hesitated, wondering why he would ask and also unsure what to say.
"Not yet," I volunteered. My God, it finally dawned on me. The guy was tracking me. He wanted to know what I knew. "You come up with anything at your end?"
"I've been busy, a string of meetings, but I still think you might want to check out the phone book." It was the second time he'd made the suggestion. He was practically ordering me to do it. Why? "You never know. I'm afraid that's about the best I can do."
"Maybe I will," I said. "I've been a little busy too."
The phone call was feeling stranger and stranger. He was sending me to see something, probably in hopes it would make me go away. It was actually more unnerving than if he'd done nothing at all.
"Well, in any case, I hope you have a good visit," he declared diplomatically. Another pause. "Planning to be here long?"
"I'm not sure yet." Why did he want to know that?
"I see. Whatever happens, I hope you find what you're looking for. Best of luck."
He hung up, leaving me with the feeling he already knew the answer to every question he'd asked. The guys at the airport, and now the embassy—I was the best-known tourist in the country.
Okay, maybe I should just play along and see what happens. In any case, I'd just lost my appetite for fried eggs with hot sauce, but I had a definite interest in the phone book.
And there they were. Ninos del Mundo. Complete with an address, way out the Boulevar R. Aguilar Batres.
Well, why not see where it leads you? Sarah's card said the place was in the Peten, but who knows?
I got up off the bed and went into the bathroom for a shampoo and shower. Despite the fact that Barry Morton wanted me to see this Ninos del Mundo place, whatever it was, I didn't want to show up looking and smelling like some bedraggled tourist. I'd wear my tailored blue suit, which, along with the dark blue heels, ought to make me look adequately businesslike.
The shower was wonderful, purging away the soot of the park, and I was wrapping my hair in a large beige towel when the phone jangled again. I tucked in the edge to secure it and walked over. Maybe it was Lou ringing back.
No such luck. The caller was none other than my brand-new partner Alan Dupre. I was not thrilled to hear his voice. Was he about to get cold feet and back out?
"Morgan, listen," he said, not wasting time on niceties, "there's been a small change of plans. I've—"
"Alan, don't do this to me." You shit. "You agreed— "
"No, why I'm calling is, we've got to go ahead and go up today, storm or no, God help us. You happy now?"
What? After that neurotic song-and-dance he'd just given me in the park? I should have been overjoyed, but something about the whole thing immediately felt synthetic. I paused a long moment, trying to think the situation through. What was going on?
The answer to that was clear as day. I was being set up. Somebody wanted me out of town, and they'd just found a way.
Or was I being paranoid again? Had the weather cleared? I reached over and pushed aside a curtain. Nope, it looked as threatening as ever.
No question. This was definitely a setup.
On the other hand why not use whoever had put him up to this? This told me for sure I was on the trail of Sarah, and the sooner I got going, the better. Aside from calling New York and then checking out the local Ninos del Mundo that Barry Morton wanted me to see so badly, I had no other pressing plans. . . .
"Alan, I thought you declared no 'effing' way were you going to go today," I said testing him. "Why the sudden revision in scheduling?"
"Yeah, well, something heavy's come up for tomorrow. I'm afraid it's gotta be now or forget it for at least a week."
Unrefined bullshit. But somebody knew how badly I wanted to go.
"Look, there's something I need to check out first. I just learned about a place here in town I want to at least see. It's also called Ninos del Mundo."
"No shit." He paused. "Okay, we'll talk about it. Get the address and maybe we can cruise by if there's time. Thing is, we don't have all that much leeway here."
"One last question." I thought I'd give him a final shot at the truth. "Just tell me honestly why it has to be today. The real story."
"Like I said everything's changed." He wasn't budging. "So if we're doing this, I've got to pick you up now and get us on our merry way."
He was too cheerful by half, which definitely told me he was lying.
"All right, but I really need to make at least one phone call first." I wanted Steve to know where I was. "And if I walk out of here with a bag, I've got to let the desk know I'm not skipping on the bill."
"Forget the phone call. No time. Do it after we get back. Just be out front in exactly nineteen minutes. This is not a dry run. The train is leaving. I'm outta here now."
There was a click and he was gone.
I sat there a moment staring at the floor. What was I getting into?
Well, there's one way to find out. Play their game and beat them. There's no better way to get inside what's going on.
The first thing I did was call Steve's hotel in Belize City. Of course he wasn't there, but I left a long message to the effect that I was taking a "sightseeing" trip up to the Peten with Alan Dupre today because of unforeseen new circumstances. The reasons were complicated, but I'd watch out for myself and therefore he shouldn't worry.
That out of the way, I looked around the room. It was a disaster, but I quickly began cramming things into the small folding backpack I always took on trips. Then I rang the kitchen and told them to make up a quadruple egg sandwich (quatro huevos, por favor) to go, along with a large bottle of distilled water.
By the time I got to the reception desk and explained I wasn't actually checking out for good, Alan Dupre was already waiting outside in his battered green Jeep, cleaning his scratchy shades and leaning on the horn.
Let him wait. I wrote out a long note to Steve, on the chance he might come looking for me. Then with deliberate slowness, I wandered out to where Alan's Jeep was parked and tossed my backpack behind the seat.
"First things first." I climbed in and handed him the address of Ninos del Mundo I'd copied onto some hotel stationery. "This is where we've got to go."
He stared at it a moment, puzzling, and then seemed to figure out where it was.
"Upscale part of this beautiful oasis." He shifted into gear. "But it's more or less on the way." He glanced up nervously at the sky. "We just don't have all day."
Off we headed toward the suburbs, through a ganglia of downtown streets laced with pizza joints and frying-meat vendors, till we eventually ended up on a tree-lined avenue that looked as genteel as Oyster Bay. When we got to the address, I told him to park across the way, and just sat a moment staring.
The building itself was a windowless compound surrounded by trees and a high wall of white stucco, with a guardhouse and wide iron gate (not unusual for Guatemala) protecting a long walkway. The whole thing looked like a fortress, except the view through the gate was a pastoral vista of neat flower beds and a pristine lawn. The guardhouse itself had a dozing teenager, undoubtedly with an Uzi resting across his lap.
"Okay, Alan," I said "time to get with the program. How's your Spanish?"
"Depends on who I'm trying to BS." He shrugged and began cleaning his sunglasses again.
"Well, why don't you see if you can talk us past that guard."
He stared at the entrance a moment. "Be a waste of our precious time. Tell you right now, kids like that only answer to one boss, the jefe, the big guy, whoever he is. That's how they retain their employment. A joint locked down this tight don't give Sunday tours."
"Well, I think he's asleep. So I'm going to be creative and see if there's a back entrance of some kind. Maybe a service area that'll give me some idea of what's going on here."
"Do what you want, but make it fast," he said, leaning back in the seat. "And try not to get shot."
I carefully got out and walked down the empty street a way, then followed the stucco wall/fence—the building covered an entire city block—until I came across an alley entrance, with another large iron gate, padlocked shut.
I peered up the driveway, shrouded in overhanging trees, but there was nothing in the parking lot except a couple of Army Jeeps. And a black Land Rover.
Well, Barry Morton really wanted me to see this. But why? Is there a connection to the place in the Peten? And what are the Army vehicles all about?
I sighed and made my way back to the street. When I reached the Jeep, Alan was gone, but then I realized he was over talking to the young guard, offering him a cigarette. A few moments later he waved good-bye and casually ambled back.
"Okay." He settled in and hit the ignition. "Here's the official deal. This place is some kind of hospice for unwed mothers. They also take in orphans, or so he thinks. According to him, no American women have ever had anything to do with the place, which is probably why I'd never heard of it." He glanced at me as we sped off. "You happy now? Debriefing young Army dudes is a specialty of mine, so I think that's probably the straight scoop."
"Did you ask if it's connected with something in the Peten?" I was still hoping. In any case, whatever it was, I was collecting more pieces of the puzzle.
"Hey, give me a break." He shifted up, gaining speed. "I know when to push, and this wasn't the precise moment. The kid was itchy enough as it was. Like, who the fuck are you, gringo, and what are you doing here? I got all I could get without a cold cerveza." He glanced over. "You ask me, a little gratitude wouldn't be entirely out of place."
"Okay. Muchas gracias, amigo. Happy now?"
"Ecstatic."
The Jeep was open and I checked out the sky, which was growing darker and more threatening by the minute. The promised foul weather still seemed to be just that, promised but it was definitely on the way. Alan Dupre must really be scared. Finally I leaned back in the torn plastic seat and closed my eyes.
Was this Ninos del Mundo the Latin branch of Children of Light? The place where Alex Goddard's babies came from? Considering the interest Colonel Ramos had in my movie, the Army Jeeps could be a tip-off. Also, there seemed to be an even chance that Barry Morton was involved somehow. But it was all still guesswork. And anyway, this wasn't the place Sarah had put on her landing card. That Ninos del Mundo was somewhere up north, hidden in the rain forest.
Ready or not, Sar, hang on.
"What did he say?" I asked, not quite catching the burst of rapid-fire Spanish from the cockpit. The explosion of expletives had included the word navegacion. Something about malfunction.
God help us.
Alan Dupre's helicopter reminded me of the disintegrating taxis on Guatemala City's potholed streets. The vibration in the passenger compartment was so violent it made my teeth chatter. My stomach felt like it was in a cocktail shaker, and the deafening roar could have been the voice of Hell.
I was staring out the smudgy plastic window, where less than three hundred meters below I could just make out the top of the Peten rain forest of northwest Guatemala sweeping by beneath us. So this was what it looked like. Dense and impenetrable, it was a yawning, deciduous carpet enveloping the earth as far as the eye could see—if something ten stories high could be called carpet. I'd been in the forests of India's Kerala and seen some of the denser growth in southern Mexico, but this was like another planet.
The main problem was, a violent downpour, the leading edge of the hurricane, was now sweeping across the Yucatan, stirring up the treetops of the jungles below. The rain, which had begun in earnest about ten minutes after we got airborne, had been steadily increasing to the point it was now almost blinding.
This was the risk I'd chosen to take, but let me admit right here: The weather had me seriously scared, my fingernails digging into the armrests and my pulse erratic. And now was there something else? We'd only been in the air for thirty-five minutes, and already we had some kind of mechanical issue looming? What was left to go wrong?
"Some of the lights went out or something." Dupre tried a shrug. "I'm not sure. No big deal, though. This old bird always gets the job done." His pilot, Lieutenant Villatoro, formerly of the Guatemalan Army, had just shouted the new development back to the cabin. "Probably nothing. Don't worry about it."
Don't worry about it! His "tourist" helicopter was a Guatemalan candidate for the Air & Space Museum, an old Bell UH-1D patched together with chicle and corn masa. Surely the storm was pushing it far beyond its stress limits.
"Right, but what exactly—?"
"Sounds like the nav station." He clicked open his seat belt. "Something . . . Who knows? If you'd be happier, I'll go up and look."
I felt my palms go cold. "Doesn't seem too much to ask, considering."
The world down below us was a hostile mélange of towering trees, all straining for the sky, while the ground itself was a dark tangle of ferns, lianas, strangler vines, creepers—among which lurked Olympic scorpions and some of the Earth's most poisonous snakes. If we had to set down here—I didn't even want to think about it. To lower a helicopter into the waves of flickering green below us would be to confront the hereafter.
"It's just the lights, like he said." Dupre yelled back from the cockpit's door, letting a tone of "I told you to chill out" seep through. He was peering past the opening, at the long line of instruments. He followed his announcement with a sigh as he moved back into the main cabin. "Relax."
I wasn't relaxed and from the way his eyes were shifting and his Gauloise cigarettes were being chain-smoked he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In his case it wasn't just the weather. He was fidgeting like a trapped animal, giving me the distinct sense he was doing someone's invisible bidding and was terrified he might fail.
"Well, why don't you try and fix it?" Was he trying to act calm just to impress me? "Can't you bang on the panel or something?"
"Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Jesus!" He edged back into the cockpit, next to Villatoro. The wind was shaking us so badly that, even bent over, he was having trouble keeping his balance. Then he halfheartedly slammed the dark instrument readouts with the heel of his open hand. When the effort produced no immediate electronic miracle, he settled into the copilot's seat.
"Que pasa? " he yelled at Villatoro, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine and the plastering of rain on the fuselage. Then he looked out the windscreen, at the torrent slamming against it, and rubbed at his chin.
"No se, mi comandante," the Guatemalan shouted back. I sensed he was hoping to sound efficient and unperturbed. Dupre claimed his pilot had personally checked out the Bell and prepped it. Now, though . . . "Mira. Like I said the lights. On the nav station. Maybe the electrical—"
"How about the backup battery?" Dupre was just barely keeping his cool.
Villatoro scratched his chin. "I'll tell you the truth. The backup is muerto. I tested it before we left, but I couldn't find any replacements in Provisiones. I figure, no problem, but now, amigo . . ."
I felt another wave of dismay, right into my churning stomach.
"Well, keep your heading north." Dupre's voice was coming from a place of extreme pain. "And if you sight the Rio Tigre, then Baalum or whatever should be more or less due west, according to what I'm assuming. Just keep your eyes open." He paused. "Problem is, with all this rain, the river's going to be tough to make out."
I redoubled my efforts to peer out the window, searching, my breath coming in bursts. Still nothing. Dear God, what now?
Finally Dupre headed back, bracing himself against the firewall as he crouched and passed through the door into the main cabin. When he settled into the seat across from me, he was glaring at me as though everything was my fault. "You know." He was yelling again. "I'm beginning to think maybe we ought to try to find a clearing and just sit out this crap till morning." He leaned over and peered down through the Bell's spattered side windows at the dense tangle of growth below. After a moment he got up and once more moved the toward the cockpit, still with the same troubled look. This time, however, he was beaming as he shouted back.
"There may be a God after all. I think we just intersected the Rio Tigre. We can bear due west now, along the river. We could be getting close, if it's where I think it is."
I turned and stared down again, barely making out the thread of the stream through the rain. Yes! Maybe there's hope. Still, below us the windblown treetops were a solid mass of pastel sparkles, a dancing sea of hungry green . . . But then I thought I saw something. Hey! It might even be a clearing. I quickly unbuckled and made my way up to the cockpit, hanging on to anything I could grasp.
"Alan, look," I yelled, and pointed off to the side, out
through the rain-obscured windscreen. "I think we just passed over something. Back there. See?"
"Where?" He squinted.
"You can still just make it out." I twisted and kept pointing. I was biting my lip, trying to hold together. "There . . . it looks like some kind of clearing. Maybe . . . I don't know, but what if we just set down there and let this storm blow over?"
He ordered Villatoro to bank and go back for a look. A few moments later it was obvious there was an opening in the trees.
"Yeah, let's check it out." He then said something to Villatoro and we started easing toward it, definitely a wide opening. The billowing ocean of trees below us seemed to be parting like the Red Sea as we settled in. There had to be solid ground down there somewhere. Had to be.
"What's . . ." I was pointing. "There, over to the side, it's a kind of hill or something. It's—"
"Where?" Dupre squinted again, his voice starting to crack. Then he focused in. "Yeah, maybe there's something there. Hard to tell what it is, though. But I guess we're about to find out."
He gestured to the lieutenant, barking an order in quick Spanish. While the Bell kept moving lower through the opening, Dupre flicked on the landing lights, and appeared to be muttering a prayer of thanks.
I was staring out, growing ever more puzzled. A "hill" was there, all right. The problem was, it was definitely man-made, topped by a stone building. I could just make it out in the glare of the lights.
"What do you think that is?"
"What do I think?" Dupre studied the scene for a moment longer, and then his face melted into the first smile I'd seen since we left. "I think we are lucky beyond belief. God help us, we may have found it. That could be the damned pyramid or whatever's supposed to be up here." He leaned back. "Yeah, congratulations. Look at that damned thing. Either this is the place, or we're about to become the archaeologists of the year. Cover of Time. The Nobel frigging Prize."
At that moment I almost wanted to hug Alan Dupre, but not quite. Instead I moved farther into the cockpit, trying to get a look out the windscreen. By then we had lowered well through the opening in the trees, the helicopter's controls fighting against the blowing rain, and it felt as though we'd begun descending into the ocean's depths in a diving bell, surrounded by thrashing, wind-whipped branches.
Now, though, I was staring at the ghostly rise of the pyramid emerging out of the rain.
"It looks brand new."
"Yeah, the whole place is 'Jungle Disneyland' remember? Except this deal ain't about Mickey Mouse, believe me. There's plenty of Army hanging out around here."
Lieutenant Villatoro took us ever lower, gently guiding the chopper's descent, and now we were only a few feet above the ground. There certainly was no mistaking what was around us, even with the blowing rain. The pyramid loomed over one side of a large plaza, a big paved area that was mostly obscured from the skies since the swaying trees arched over and covered it from aerial view.
"Okay, we're about to touch down." Dupre was clawing at his pocket, yearning for a cigarette. "So if you still want to get out, move over by the door. I'll disengage the main rotor once we're on the ground."
As we settled in, the rotor began to cause surface effect, throwing a spray off the paving stones, which now glistened under the cold beam of the landing lights. And looming above us, off to the right, was a stepped pyramid in the classic Mayan style. We all lapsed into silence as the Bell's skids thumped onto the stones. The ex-Army pilot, Villatoro, kept glancing over at the pyramid as though he didn't want to admit even seeing it. Did he know something Alan and I didn't?
This was the moment I'd been bracing for. I was increasingly convinced somebody wanted me to see this place, whatever it was, but now what should I do?
Well, the first thing was to dip my toe in the water, do a quick reconnoiter on the ground. If this really was Baalum, Dupre's Maya Disneyland, could it also be part of Alex Goddard's clinic of "miracles," the location Sarah called Ninos del Mundo? If I knew that for sure, then I could start figuring how to find out if she was here—as I suspected—and get her out of his clutches. Maybe the see-no-evil embassy might even be prodded into helping an American citizen for a change.
"I'm getting out, to look around a little, but not till you turn off the engine. I want to be able to use my ears."
"All right, but don't take all day. This kind of weather, I want to keep it warm." He turned to Villatoro and shouted the order. In the sheets of pounding rain, I figured that no one could have heard us come in. That, at least, was positive.
When the rpm's of the engine had died away, I clicked open the Bell's wide door, slid it back, and looked around. In the glare of the landing lights I realized at once that the stones were old, weathered, and worn, but the grout that sealed them was white and brand new. The plaza was free of moss, clean as the day it was done—which did not appear to be all that long ago. Above me, the pyramid, continuous recessed tiers of glistening stones, towered into the dim skyline of trees.
I stepped out onto the pavement, holding my breath. The plaza was almost football-field in size, reminding me of an Italian piazza. Around me the rain was lessening slightly, and as my eyes adjusted . . . my God. There wasn't just a pyramid here; through the sparkle of raindrops at the edge of the helicopter's lights I could see what looked like a wide cobblestone walkway leading into the dense growth just off the edge of the square, probably toward the south, away from the river, connecting the plaza with distant groups of small, thatch-roofed houses, set in clusters. . . .
Could Alex Goddard's "miracle" clinic be in some collection of primitive huts? It made no sense.
But I decided to try to get a closer look. I'd walked about thirty feet away from the helicopter, across the slippery paving, when I saw a flash of lightning in the southeast, followed by a boom of thunder that echoed over the square.
At least I thought it was thunder. Or maybe the Army was holding heavy artillery practice somewhere nearby. Abruptly the rain turned into a renewed torrent, and the next thing I heard was the helicopter's engine start up again. Then I sensed the main rotor engage, a sudden "whoom, whoom, whoom" quickly spiraling upward in frequency.
Hey! I told him not to—!
When I looked back at the Bell's open door, Dupre was standing there, frantically searching the dark as he heaved out my tan backback and what looked like a rolled-up sleeping bag, both splashing down onto the rain-soaked paving.
What! For a moment I thought the thunder, or whatever it was, must have completely freaked him. Then what was actually happening hit me with a horrifying impact.
"Alan, wait!"
I started dashing back, but now the main rotor was creating a powerful downdraft, throwing the rain into me like a monsoon. By the time I managed to fight my way through the spray, the rotor was on full power and Alan Dupre and his Bell were already lifting off. I reached up, and just managed to brush one greasy skid as he churned away straight upward into the rainy night.
"You shit!" I yelled up, but my final farewell was lost in the whine of the engine. My God, I thought, watching him disappear, I've just been abandoned hundreds of miles deep in a Central American rain forest.
Then it all sank in. Whoever had gotten to him was playing a rough game. They didn't want me just to see Baalum, they wanted me delivered here. Probably to secure me in the same place Sarah was. Colonel Ramos, or whoever had frightened Dupre into bringing me, had wanted us both. So what now? Were we both going to be "disappeared"? Staring around at the pyramid and the empty square, I could feel my heart pounding.
Then I tripped over the rolled sleeping bag and sank to my knees there in the middle of the rain-swept plaza, soaked to the skin and so angry I was actually trembling. Up above me, Alan Dupre, king of two-timers, had switched off his landing lights, and a few moments later the hum of the Bell was swallowed by the night sounds of the forest—the high-pitched din of crickets, the piercing call of night birds, the basso groan of frogs celebrating the storm.
And something else, an eerie sense of the unnatural. I can't explain it. Even the night songs of the birds felt ominous, the primeval forest reasserting its will. It was haunting, like nature's mockery of my desolation. I pounded the sleeping bag and felt . . . shit, how did I let this happen?
Get a grip. I finally stood up and looked around. Maybe when God wants to do you up right, She gives you what you want. You used Alan Dupre just like you intended: He got you here. But there's more to the plan of whoever's holding his puppet strings. So the thing now is, don't let yourself be manipulated any more. Get off your soggy butt and start taking control of the situation. . . .
That was when I sighted a white form at the south, forested edge of the plaza. What! I ducked down, sure it was somebody lurking there, waiting to try to beat me to death as they had Sarah. Did Ramos intend to just murder me immediately?
But there was no getting away. If I could see them, they surely could see me. And where would I escape to anyway?
I dug my yellow plastic flashlight out of my backpack and my hand shaking, flicked it on. The beam, however, was just swallowed up in the rain. All right. I strapped on the pack and taking a deep breath, threw the rolled sleeping bag over my shoulder and headed across the slippery paving toward the white, which now glistened in the periodic sheets of distant lightning.
Meet them straight on. Try and bluff.
When I got closer, though, I realized what I was seeing was actually just the skin of a jaguar, bleached white, the head still on, fearsome teeth bared which had been hung beside the paved pathway. Thank God.