“Don’t answer it!” my mother said.
For thirty seconds we didn’t move. Another knock followed, harder this time. I looked at Mom and said, “Wait here.”
“Nick, no.”
I walked to the window and pulled the drapes away from the window frame only far enough to peer out. A blue Ford was parked across the street. Just the sight of it had my blood boiling-the nerve of this creep to follow my mother home. My dad had a Smith amp; Wesson revolver in the bedroom, but I had a sense that the ax handle he’d always kept hanging behind the refrigerator might set a more proper tone.
“Call the police,” I said.
She picked up the phone. I grabbed the ax handle and started for the back door.
“Where are you going?”
“I can’t just open the door and let him in. I’ll walk around to the front and confront him.”
“Please, wait for the police.”
“How dangerous can he be? He rang the doorbell.”
“So did the Boston Strangler.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Over my mother’s pleas I opened the door and stepped out, ax handle gripped firmly. I hurried across the back patio, turned at the corner of the house, headed up the side yard, and stopped at the front of the garage. From there I could see the Ford across the street. I could hear it, too. The motor was running. I took another step forward and looked across our front lawn. A short guy in a baseball cap was standing on our front porch. He was smaller than me, a good thing. I approached with as much bravado as I could muster and stopped at the base of the steps.
“What do you want?” I asked pointedly.
He nearly jumped. I’d caught him by surprise. “Are you Matthew Rey?”
“No. I’m his son. Who are you?”
He reached inside his shirt.
“Don’t move!” I shouted.
In a flash he threw something that hit me in the chest. He leaped off the porch and sprinted across the lawn. I tried to catch him, but I’d gotten a slow start and this kid was lightning. In a matter of seconds he was inside his car. The motor was already running. He slammed it into gear and squealed away.
I tried to get the license plate number but missed it. I walked back to the front porch and found what he’d thrown at me. It was an envelope stuffed with papers. I opened it and immediately realized what had just happened. The guy was a process server. Someone must have told him that we’d try to avoid accepting service of court papers, so he’d planned a sneak attack.
My shock turned to anger as I saw the caption in black and white: Quality Insurance Company v. Matthew Rey, it read.
They were suing my father. Even more infuriating, two separate subpoenas commanded my father and me to appear in Miami-Dade circuit court at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for an emergency hearing. The gall. Dad was in a jungle held captive for ransom by Colombian guerrillas, and they had an emergency.
I flipped to the last page to see who the lawyer was, though this kind of legal maneuvering left little doubt as to the perpetrator. Still, it nearly sent me spinning to see the name and address of my own law firm in the signature block and, above the signature line, the familiar scrawl of my supervising partner, Duncan Fitz.
“You son of a bitch,” I said quietly. “I’ll give you an emergency.”
I folded up the papers and went back inside the house.
32
It was less than two hours till sunset, and they’d been marching since dawn. Joaquin and two others led the way through the jungle thicket with machetes, followed by three more guerrillas armed with AK-47s. The three Colombian prisoners were next, the young mother and father first, then the Flea Man. Close behind them were three more armed guards and the Japanese couple, the newest prisoners. Two more guerrillas followed with Matthew and the Swede. Four guerrillas brought up the rear, the best shooters in the bunch.
Their shooting skills were no secret. Yesterday afternoon they’d trotted out the prisoners to watch their target practice, not just to show off but to make their point. If any of them were thinking about an escape, they’d have to outrun a team of sharpshooters who could blow a Coke bottle off a stump at a distance of a hundred meters. The demonstration wasn’t exactly a lift to anyone’s spirits, but Matthew sensed that the Swede had been especially demoralized. Jan had been dispirited and crankier than ever since their talk at the river, when Matthew had made it clear that he wanted no part of an attempted escape. Of course Matthew had kept their discussion to himself, but strangely enough the guards seemed to have picked up on Jan’s mood and were watching him more closely. Perhaps the guerrillas were experienced enough to sense when a prisoner was plotting an escape.
Or, Matthew feared, maybe they’d overheard him and Jan talking.
“Stop here,” shouted Joaquin.
The human chain came to a halt. The guerrillas dropped their packs and began to make camp. It was a suitable place. Firm ground, not the swampy mosses they’d struggled through for the past hour. A thick canopy of trees overhead concealed them from sight. There were plenty of dead branches around for a fire, though it wasn’t essential that they make one. It was noticeably less chilly here than at their other camp. All day long they’d climbed and descended along narrow mountain paths, but the net result was a slightly lower altitude. One of the guerrillas was in shirtsleeves, but that was a little crazy, a machismo thing.
The guards barked out orders in Spanish, and the prisoners were broken into three groups. Matthew and the Swede found a couple of large rocks to sit on beneath a tree.
Jan asked, “Interesting, the way they always keep you and me together.”
“We’re easier to guard this way.”
“But look how they break up the lot of us.”
“Seems logical. The Japanese couple is married, the Spanish speakers are with the Spanish speakers, and you and I speak English.”
“It has nothing to do with language, fisherman. Both the Colombian men speak English. You and I are the troublemakers. That’s why we’re together.”
“Is that something you figured out by yourself?”
“Yes. And the sooner you figure it out, the better off you’ll be.”
Matthew sensed that Jan was going to raise the E word again-escape. “I told you, you’re on your own.”
“Yeah. That’s what the Colombian said, too.”
“You talked to Emilio?”
“Of course. Haven’t you noticed the guards swarming all over me for the past three days? Emilio tipped them off.”
“Emilio’s no snitch.”
“Like hell. Why do you think he got a new pair of boots for today’s march? No one else got so much as a clean pair of socks.”
“They gave him new boots because he needed them.”
“I keep telling you, fisherman, it’s every man for himself here. Can’t you see that we have to do something?”
Matthew didn’t answer. He glanced toward a group of guerrillas sharing a tin of sausages and some white beans. The prisoners hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast-half a cup of coffee and a handful of cold rice. Matthew had forgotten how it had felt not to be hungry.
“Open your eyes,” Jan continued. “They’ve got too many prisoners. They can’t even feed all of us, let alone guard us. Either we make a run for it, or it’s like the Flea Man said: They’ll whittle down the group one way or another. We’ll both end up dead like Will.”
“Nobody’s going to end up like Will unless we do something stupid.”
“You’re wrong. In their eyes you and I are exactly like Will. If they can’t make a quick buck off us, we’re not worth the trouble. The docile ones like the Flea Man they’ll keep forever. But guys like us, it’s fish or cut bait. You can relate to that one, can’t you, fisherman?”
“You’re paranoid.”
“It’s the way these guerrillas think. They’re bored, and we’re their entertainment. They got rid of Will, and pretty soon they’ll decide that somebody else is trouble and needs to go.”