Olimpia had picked her up at the harbor in Oranjestad and had driven like a mad woman to a private airstrip. Throughout the harried trip, Olimpia assured Diane that leaving on short notice was not a problem. “We will just go to the Kogi a few days earlier than planned,” she said.
The bumpy flight to Santa Marta in the single-engine plane, with its many rattles and vibrations, was not conducive to whispered questions like: “Who or what is the Kogi?”
After landing in Santa Marta, Diane’s attempts at questioning Olimpia had been shushed in a parental tone that strongly indicated Diane should be seen but not heard. She barely remembered climbing into the taxi and falling into an exhausted sleep.
Now, she realized her short nap had revived her just enough to awaken her anguish and anxiety. If she was going to survive this ordeal, she knew she had to confront her demons—immediately.
Diane sat up, breathed deeply and rolled her shoulders. She’d take a rational scientific approach, analyzing her pain down to its enzymes as if it were a soul-eating plant. I can do this.
First she addressed her anguish: It began with the realization that the man she had just made love with and his charming father were involved in her husband’s murder.
A searing pain shot across her chest. Diane sat back, forced her mind to go blank and focused on her respirations. In a minute or so, she had relaxed enough to confront the demon again.
This time she interrogated it: Had she encouraged Gabriel’s interest in her, beginning with their first meeting and that dance aboard the Enterprise? If so, had Gabriel murdered Vincent to free her for himself…? What about Carlos and all that gentlemanly fawning over her? She was a clone of his wife. Did he want her as a replacement? Or was that fuzzy female thinking?
Okay, how about the business aspect? Gabriel owned control of BRI. Had Raymond reported Vincent’s constant probing and multiple grievances to him? Or, if Vincent knew of Gabriel’s majority ownership, had he aired his complaints directly to Gabriel?
Gabriel’s email address was Vincent’s only mention of the Carreras in his notes. Could Vincent have written to him threatening to expose some dirty secrets that would destroy Bayside Research?
Of course! That had to be it! Men with Gabriel’s wealth and power didn’t need to kill in order to get women; they only murdered when their money was at risk. That’s probably why they had invited her to the island—to assess just how much she knew. Her fleeing the scene before they had a chance to interrogate her probably confirmed their suspicions. They had murdered her husband, and now they’d be after her.
She struggled to control a rising anger. She had to focus—the interrogation was not over. Her chest tightened as she forced herself to ask the next question: Why did she make love to Gabriel Carrera, her husband’s murderer? She looked down at her baggy T-shirt and shorts; she was still wearing his clothes. Her eyes watered. She dabbed at the moisture with a knuckle and asked herself: Why the tears? Was it anger? Humiliation? Fear?
She probed and prodded the corners of her brain, but the answer remained hidden. Sensing she would be haunted by that question for years to come, she moved on.
As she faced her next demon—anxiety—the questions came at her like clenched fists. Why had Olimpia insisted that she go out to Carrera Island? She turned a heavy-hearted gaze on the woman sleeping next to her. Can I trust you, Olimpia Garza? Or are you leading me into the jaws of the beast?
The taxi stopped in front of the Hotel Ojeda. Olimpia awoke. The next leg in their odyssey began.
Gratefully, Diane turned her face up to the spray and tried to remember when she last bathed. Olimpia was already in her night shirt, and by the sound of it, she had been on the telephone since Diane turned on the shower.
At first, Diane had strained to hear Olimpia’s machinations through the splashing water. Failing that, she resigned herself to whatever lay ahead—at least for the short term. Olimpia had promised a tell-all concerning their destination at their next meal, which would come at about 1 p.m. after a few hours sleep.
In all fairness, Diane admitted to herself that she had not yet disclosed the nature of her distress. She simply told Olimpia she couldn’t talk about it yet, and Olimpia had backed off.
In bringing her here, Olimpia was apparently acting out of trust: In the middle of the night, she had thrown Diane’s things in a backpack and rushed to rescue her from an unnamed assailant. Diane wished she could offer Olimpia that same trust. But, in fact, she couldn’t even trust herself. She feared that Vincent was right when he wrote in his notes: Diane blocks any suggestion of sub rosa activities at BRI. Her zeal for her new job seems to have obliterated her innate people sense.
She lay on her back staring at the ceiling light fixture and listening to the even breathing from the other bed. She sensed that she and Olimpia were not alone there. Was she just delusional from the fatigue?
She rolled on her side and fell asleep.
The towering Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta looked down upon Diane as she stepped from the cab in front of a small hillside restaurant. And for the first time since her arrival in Colombia, she turned and looked up.
She was stunned to see a spectacular mountain range standing at the edge of the Caribbean. Taking in its enormity, she heard a deep-throated wind—a mantra-like sound that poured forth from its lofty heights. She stood there, mesmerized, listening.
From behind her came Olimpia’s voice. “The Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta is the tallest coastal mountain in the world. It is the realm of the Kogi. Tribe members say the mountain speaks to the worthy among them. They say it confers strength of mind and body upon the pure of heart. We are heading up there this afternoon.” She tapped Diane’s arm, breaking her trance. “Come; we must nourish ourselves. The Mountain abhors weakness.”
Over a grilled grouper sandwich, Olimpia told Diane about the ethereal Kogi, the only remaining Colombian tribe that was not conquered by the Spanish in the sixteenth century. The Kogi simply climbed so far up the mountain, the Conquistadors could not reach them. Today, some of their aerial farmlands were still inaccessible except to those with special knowledge of the way up.
Olimpia patted Diane’s arm across the table. “You will be safe there for a while. Then we will make other arrangements.”
She told Diane that to reach the Kogi, they would climb the first three thousand feet of near-vertical jungle in a helicopter. She had made reservations while Diane was showering.
They would land amidst the ancient ruins of Ciudad Perdida, the “Lost City.” The twenty-minute flight would trim three days off a six-day trek and help them avoid some major marijuana and coca growing areas and the armed guerillas that patrolled them.
But first some errands in town.
Juan, the cab driver who picked them up at the restaurant, wore a backwards Mets cap and had an Empire State Building charm dangling from his mirror. As they climbed into the backseat, he greeted Olimpia like a longtime friend: “Como estan, Dr. Leona.”
“Buenas tardes, Juan.”
Dr. Leona? Diane made eye contact with Olimpia and raised her eyebrows. Olimpia responded with a wink.
Juan assessed Diane approvingly over the seat back. “Soy Juan. Como se llama?”
Olimpia intercepted the question: “Esta Dr. Florencia.”
Diane took the cue. She was supposed to be Hispanic. No problemmo. She had always been told she had no “Yankee” accent when she spoke Spanish. She smiled and nodded at Juan. “Encantado.”