Dance With the Devil

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE:

Mateo, Colombia

Miguel scrambled up the ladder made from two small trees.  The stripped branches Father Thomas and Doctor Neill nailed to the uprights still had some sharp points.  As he climbed, they dug into his feet and hands.  He pressed his lips together to keep from crying out.  When he
settled onto the scrap of wood that had been cut and wedged across one corner of the steeple of The Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracle, a splinter jabbed his into thigh.  He cursed the polite way Father Thomas had taught him.  G-D.  S-O-B.  F-K.

The bell loomed behind him.  Sitting in the tower day after day, he thought he sensed it giving off, not only heat from the relentless sun, but also vibrations, a sound that he couldn't hear, like that made by the dog whistle he'd found in the dump.  Father Thomas said that was entirely possible because The Church was always calling out to people, whether or not they sensed it, offering sanctuary for their bodies and spirits.

A hot, moist breeze rippled the leaves of the thick canopy that inch by inch encroached upon the village of Mateo.  The perfume of a hundred different kinds of flowers drifted on the air, as did the rich, damp odor given off by a million years of rotting vegetation, and the the stench from the dump. Miguel took the thick rope attached to the clapper of the bell in his two hands, draped it over his arms, and rested his head on it.  He didn't care that it made a prickly pillow. He dared not sleep.

His job was the most important in the whole village.  Because he was the smallest of the older boys, he alone, among all of all of them, could fit into the tiny space.  For the first time in his life, his
size in relation to his age, was an advantage.  All the taunting for being so small and being left out of games was meaningless now that he was appointed watchman.

And where were all those mean boys?  Miguel laughed to think of them stuck in the schoolroom that had been set up on the second floor of the clinic.  Their voices in sing-song unison recitation of the times tables drifted across the green to him.  "Cinco por siete es treintay cinco.  Seis por siete es cuarentay dos." 

Even in the steeple, with such an important job to do, he couldn't escape the useless things the gringos thought the children of Mateo needed to learn.  And he couldn't keep his mind from joining in.  When Nurse Margaret called out Peru, shown of the huge wall map, also a treasure from the dump, Miguel would whisper Lima, the capitol, before the children in the classroom could respond. 

He wiped sweat from his forehead to keep the salty drops from running into his eyes and blurring his vision.  On his next trip to the dump, he was going to keep looking until he found a red,
genuine NBA Chicago Bulls sweat band. 

"To stay in the game as watchman," Father Thomas had said when he'd appointed Miguel to the job, "Keep your eyes moving."

Miguel looked around the village for the tenth time that morning.  On the right, next to the church, stood the two story building that served as a clinic and school house.  It was originally an inn with
many sleeping rooms upstairs and a large dining room and kitchen on the first floor.  Clear, he thought, like the cops in movies he'd seen in the city. 

Scattered here and there around the green were houses of various sizes.  When times were good, they bore fresh, brightly colored paint.  But their paint, like the white of the church and the inn, had faded and was peeling away. Clear. 

To the left of the church stood a small store that had been built when many visitors came to Mateo to bathe in the pool at the bottom of the falls.  All three buildings were over one hundred and twenty-five years old.  Built at the time of the miracle.  Nestor, the store owner, on his weekly trips to Medellin or Cali, bought only the items he thought the villagers would barter for or buy,
so there were many empty shelves.  But the story was a busy place where the men gathered to drink and to talk about matters that didn't concern the doctor or the priest.  Clear.

Suddenly Isabella came from the old inn and started across the green.  Miguel sat up straight to his full height to show himself to best advantage in the big opening in the steeple.  She was smart in school and, once in a while, she was sent from class, while the others finished their lessons, to help clean the sanctuary for Sunday mass. Miguel watched her make her way across the shady square.

Except for a scar on her right temple, which Father Thomas and Doctor
Neill said was where God had touched her to make the small pox go away,
she had flawless skin the color of the meat of a walnut.  Her hair was
long, black, and straight.  A wide red ribbon with white stars on it, tied in a big bow at the
nape of her neck, kept her hair away from her face.  Her eyes could be soft
or sharp depending on her mood.  Her smile was beautiful.  One day she would be his wife. 

"Hola, Miguel," she called softly as she entered the church.

"Hola," he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, making sure not to wave, as he had done the first time she came to help. The gesture had set off the bell. Everyone immediately began to run
around according to Father Thomas' and Doctor Neill's plan.  Miguel was humiliated when he had to admit, after everyone had calmed down and he was in the privacy of the confessional, that it was Isabella's arrival and not the sighting of bandits that had caused him to accidentally pull the rope.  Even though Father Thomas swore he never revealed matters mentioned in the confessional, when the men sat in Nestor's store smoking and talking about the nasties, Mateo's name was linked with Isabella's.   

He put these thoughts aside and searched the tree line around the village for any sign of unnatural movement.  Birds sang and howler monkeys called to each other without undue urgency. Clear.

Miguel wiggled his toes and flexed his ankles, as Nurse Margaret had told him to do, to keep his legs, dangling into the void below his seat, from falling asleep.  He worked at getting the splinter out of his thigh, but only drove it further under his skin.  He cursed the letters of the English words.  He would mention the splinter when Father Thomas and Doctor Neill came to relieve him for lunch and recess.  They would say it would have to come out immediately to prevent infection.  They would summon Nurse Margaret and she would lead him across the green.  The other children
would know his job was not only important, but also fraught with many dangers.  And they would see the shirt he had found in the dump.  It was red with a black bull on the front and had the number twenty-three on the back.  Above the number, it said "I want to be like" and below the number it had said, "Mike"  Using a thick, black marker, he had blotted out that name and written "Miguel" in bold letters.

Doctor Neill had warned everyone in the village to stay away from the dump.  While he agreed that gringos threw away many valuable things, he said that the dump was filled with invisible germs that caused disease. Miguel didn't believe in Doctor Neill's invisible germs any more than he believed in Father Thomas' invisible God.

Prologue2

Prologue2

Miguel lifted his canteen to his lips.  Before he could take a swallow, he saw three men carrying weapons coming down the road from the highway.  He dropped the canteen and sat stunned for a seemingly long moment that ended abruptly when the canteen clattered onto the floor below.  He grabbed the thick bell rope and pulled.  A note that sounded like a very loud version of a coin wobbling on the marble counter in Nestor’s store rang out.  Much to his surprise, vibrations shook his body and threatened to addle his brain.  He managed to pull the rope again.  He waited until the sound was almost gone before he pulled once more.  Then he repeated the signal.  Boing.  Boing.  Pause.  Boing.  The whole process took less than thirty seconds, but to Miguel it seemed an eternity.  As soon as he struck the last note, he half scrambled and half slid down the rickety ladder.   He ran across the green to the clinic.

“Mijo!”  One of the ladrones called out to him.

Miguel ran faster, imagining himself a jaguar, and leaped onto the porch and through the doorway in two bounds.  He crashed into Doctor Neill who caught him before he fell.  Nearly breathless, Miguel said, “Tres hombres.  Not wearing uniforms.  Two semi-automatics and a pistol.”

Doctor Neill gave him a quick pat on the back and said, “Good work.  Now get into line with the others.”

Only then did Miguel see the children from the classroom standing in the upper landing staring at him.  Their silence a tribute to the respect they now felt for him. 

Nurse Margaret clapped her hands and said, “Rapido! Rapido!” 

The children broke into a mad dash down the stairs, yelling, laughing, and acting as if they were on their way to recess.  Doctor Neill stepped into their path and said, “The Plan says you’ll walk, not talk, and stand quietly in front of the church. Saben porque?”

“Si,” the children responded by rote, “So the ladrones won’t kill us.”

Doctor Neill stepped out of their way.  The children walked solemnly down the steps and through the doorway.  Miguel hurried along until he found a place in line beside Isabella.

Isabella stole a glance at the common street punks standing with their weapons pointed at the men and women who had already gathered at the church.  “Aye!!!!  Son los mismos!” she said.  She had been very afraid of them the last time they’d raided Mateo.  Every time she had entered the church, she’d prayed that they wouldn’t come back.

“No preocupes!” Miguel said, “Worrying is a waste of time.  The Plan will work.”

“Odio el viejo!  Es feo y huele mal!”

“Quieto!” Nurse Margaret said fiercely.  No telling what the bandito would do if he heard Isabella, such a foolish child, say she hated The Old Man and that he stank.     

The children took their places beside their parents.  Doctor Neill, Nurse Margaret, Father Thomas, and Miguel stood in front of everyone, face to face with the thieves.      

Father Thomas said, “Bienvenidos a Mateo!”

The Old man pointed his semi-automatic rifle at Father Thomas’ head and said, “Cayete”

“Tranquilo!!!!,” Father Thomas said, “Lleven todo si quieren y vayan con la bendicion de Dios!!!”  He’d heard that raids on other small villages had turned violent and his greatest fear was that they would do more than take what they wanted and leave.  He made a sign of the cross for each bandit.

“Cayete dije, hijo de puta!!!,” The Old Man snarled.  Father Thomas bowed his head in acquiesce.  The Old Man pointed his weapon at one woman and then another.  “Muevensen!! Ayudan cargar las mulas!”  The men walked behind the women with their weapons pointed at them.  The Old Man looked over those remaining and pointed at Isabella and said, “Tu tambien.”   

Miguel lunged toward Isabella as if to stop her from obeying the command to go with the other two women, but Doctor Neill managed to grab him and hold him back.  He cupped his hand over the boy’s mouth to keep him from saying anything that might get himself and maybe others into very serious trouble.  For they had all agreed at a meeting in Nestor’s store after the first raid, in case banditos came again to Mateo, the only way to escape the violence done in other villages was full co-operation.        

When she was gone, The Old Man said, “Todos en la iglesia!”

The villagers took their usual places in the church.  Father Thomas stood in the small pulpit and said, “Recemos” as he folded his hands and bowed his head. 

The Old Man fired his weapon, filling the church with a terrifying noise while a dozen rounds ripped through the sanctuary.  Shards of glass, splinters of wood, and chunks of plaster flew into the air.  Everyone screamed crouched down.  Men threw their bodies over their wives and children.  The Old Man said, “Hay preguntas?”

After a long moment, there was the timid sound of a kneeler being lowered into place.  Everyone held their breaths.  Then came the squeak of another followed by the scrape of metal as it met the tiled floor.   The Old Man did nothing.  A whole chorus of kneelers being lowered into place filled the church. “Padre nuestro que estas en el cielo…..”one woman began The Lord’s Prayer in a barely audible whisper.  Others joined in.  The whisper swelled.  Father Thomas knelt down at his place said the softest of prayers.  When they finished, the woman began, “Dios te salve, Maria……..Santo Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores….”  Still The Old Man did nothing. 

Father Thomas and the entire congregation worked their way around their rosaries over and over.  Soon, through the blessing of prayer and the blessed unity of their voices and spirits, Father Thomas, and he hoped everyone in the church, felt His presence.  As their priest, he felt safe in the Lord and he hoped his parishioners did, too.  Even little Miguel, Father Thomas thought as he stole a glance at the boy, who refused to believe, might be moved.   

Then Father Thomas’ sense of the nearness of the Lord and his trust in Him as their protector was shattered by an unholy scream and a woman crying, “No!  Por favor, no me toques!!! Dios, ayudame!!!” 

The husbands of the two women, Isabella’s father, and several other men jumped up from the kneelers, pushed through to the ends of the pews, and charged up the aisle.  The Old Man shot them, hitting each one many times.  Nurse Margaret, with the help of several men, restrained Doctor Neill.  There was nothing he could do for them because they were all obviously dead.  The villagers screamed and shouted at The Old Man.  Father Thomas shouted, too, but his cries were directed at God. 

                     

             

ChapOne-1

CHAPTER ONE-1

Orange County, California

“I'm sorry, Nick, I just don’t know what I want to do,” Sheila said.  "I guess I'm still in shock over the notice to vacate." 

She wished for the hundredth time that the owner of the cottage she rented in Corona del Mar hadn’t decided to sell it.  As a widow, she was entitled to her late husband's social security and his pension from Datalink,which, along with the money she earned as a tempm added up to just enough to buy necessities and to cover rent on the 1,000 square foot, charming, garage conversion.  "I dread the idea of an apartment and I can't afford even the oldest, smallest, miles-from-the-beach condo."              

Nicholas stopped walking.  Sheila turned back to see why.  He took her hands in his and said, “Let's pool our money and get a nicer place than either of us could afford on our own." 

So there it was.  A proposal, of sorts.  Not of marriage, but of a horridly practical plan that would end up with her cast in the role of wife.  She'd been dreading for sometime that he'd suggest a change in their relationship.  But she hadn't anticipated a half step.  She should have been angry.  Instead, she wondered how, when it came their relationship, such an intelligent, funny, and kind man, could think a Neanderthal.      

He watched her for a moment and then a look of dismay crossed his face.  "I'm sorry.  That was stupid.  Please, just forget it." 

 

That stung.  The only thing worse than receiving an unwanted, unromantic, practical, semi-proposal was having it almost instantly withdrawn.  Sheila decided there wasn't any point in chastising him. 

She said, "The problem is that I can't make any decisions about where I'm going to live until I've seen my older brother about my inheritance money."      

           

They held hands as they walked along the edge of the waves.  The late afternoon sun grew bigger and became more orange as it descended toward the glinting, blue Pacific.  A moisture laden, cool breeze pushed its way onshore.  Beach goers began to pack up their gear and leave.  Sheila like the beach best in early morning, late afternoon, and in the off season, when it was nearly deserted.

 

Once over the horrible shock of William's death and through a period of deep mourning, she’d sold their place and moved into the cottage because it was just a block from the beach.  At fifty-five, she was on her own for the first time in her life.  She'd discovered that she enjoyed being alone.  Two years later, Nicholas had come as a pleasant relief from having too much of a good thing. 

But moving in together, even after a year of spending most of their free time together, she wasn't at all sure that was a good idea.

 

She stole a glance at him.  He wasn't exactly handsome, but he was nice looking.  He was tall with thick, white hair and a white, neatly trimmed mustache.  At sixty he still had a trace of the apple cheeks he must have had as a young boy whose family came from Scotland.  She tended to be casual about her appearance and wore only the most comfortable clothes and shoes, habits left over from her days as a hippie.  Her hair was white, too, but she colored it in a reverse weave that added light brown tones.  Nicholas was always carefully groomed and dressed, even when playing tennis or golf.  It got her goat that they looked equally fit, but she had to work out three or four times a week to stay in shape.  Nicholas was a wonderful man.  In an instant she could compile a long list of his fine qualities.  But she had never felt for him the passions she'd felt as a young woman dating and marrying William.  She believed passion should be as large a part in the equation of her feelings for Nicholas as the fact that he was such a gentleman, that he was so honest, and that he was incapable of doing anything of a dubious nature.  All excellent qualities.  Still her heart resisted.               

Her cell phone came to life playing a new age melody.  She let go of Nicholas's hand and dug it out of her little handwoven purse.

   

“Sheila?” her younger brother’s voice beamed to her from Mateo. 

“Tom?”  Even after all the years he’d been a priest it was still hard for her to call him by his taken name.  The rarity of a phone call from him prompter her to ask, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

"I can't help worrying about you.  Did you get that fake belly you asked me to send?"

"I did.  Thanks for getting it."

"I know you said no questions, but I'd like to know why you needed a stage quality fake belly."

"I'll tell you someday.  I promise."

Since the cell phone she'd sent him didn't work in Mateo, she said, “You must be in the city.”

“Medillin,” he said, “We’ve had an outbreak of typhus.  We need tetracycline, but we can’t get any.  Not even on the black market.  Are you still working at that pharmaceutical company?”

“Yes, I’m still temping at Beckman.”

"Could you ask if they donate drugs to poor clinics?"

“I'll check first thing in the morning."

“People are dying here.”  His voice broke.  “Old people and children,” he sobbed. 

Sheila gasped and said, “Are you sure you’re all right, Tom?”

After a moment he said, “Forgive me for a moment of weakness.  Things are very tough, with the drug cartels fighting for power and corruption tearing the government apart."      

“I really wish you’d come home or at least get out of there.”

“God, in his wisdom, put me here and here I'm going to stay," he said.  “Please send the tetracycline fastest possible.  I love you and miss you, Sheila.  Vaya con Dios.”  The connection went dead.

Sheila closed her phone.  She was deeply shaken.  She told Nicholas the gist of the conversation.  Then she added, “He used to be a surfer.  Not at all the kind of kid you'd think would grow up to be a priest.  Very athletic.  Pugnacious.  Sitting on his surf board, he used to fight other surfers who'd try to chase him off the best spot to catch a wave.  When I think of what my little brother's done with his life, it makes mine seem so petty.”

"You took care of your husband, managed a household, and raised two wonderful kids.  Nothing wrong with that."

"But there wasn't anything special about that.  And its all in the past.  I wish I could find something of significance to do now."

"Sending the tetracycline to your brother will save lives.  That'll be pretty significant."

That was a deeply satisfying thought.  For the first time since the notice to vacate had arrived, she felt happy.  Even optimistic.  She couldn't help smiling. She said, "Yes, it will be significant."

They turned back and walked toward the parking lot where they'd left Nicholas' car.  He insisted on helping her climb over the boulders along the shore.  Even though she was perfectly capable of making her own way, she enjoy the gesture.  She felt deep affection for him.  Perhaps, at fifty-eight, she was foolish to want the irresistible, mad love of youth.         

    

 

Chapter One - 2

The office that processed all requests for donations of drugs occupied the entire eighth floor of Beckman Pharmaceuticals.  The walls and cabinets were laden with awards and expressions of thanks.  Mr. Houseman held the title of Vice President in charge of Philanthropic Services. 

"He's in Africa," Miss Lovell said and then added with great pride, "Working with Bill and Melinda Gates and Bono.  As an employee, you're allowed to request that one box of drugs be sent, at no charge,to a registered hospital or medical organization provided there's a physician on site.  I can help you initiate your request."

"I'm a temp," Sheila said.   

"Oh, dear," Miss Lovell frowned.  "How long have you been temping for us?"

"About a year.  You probably hear this all the time, but it really is a matter of life and death."  She repeated everything, which wasn't much, that her brother had told her and then said, "My brother broke down and cried.  He's a priest, but he's not a wimp.  So the situation must be very serious."      

After listening very patiently Miss Lovell said, "Well, you're practically a regular employee.  And I like the idea of sending drugs to Colombia, Kind of like that old saying about carrying coals to Newcastle.  Take one of the forms, fill it out, and bring it back.  Maybe I can find a way to help, but please don't tell any of the other temps or I'll be swamped with requests from them."    

"Is it okay if I fill it out and turn it in now?"

"That'll be fine.  But you should know it takes about a week to verify the information you provide, to get your request approved, and for your request to reach the front of the shipping cue." 

"Can it be sent fastest possible?  I'm willing to pay the extra shipping costs."

"We always ship FedEx at no cost to the donor.  Once it reaches the front of the cue, it will reach its destination in about three or four days."

"So it'll get there in about ten days?  I hate to think of old people and children dying while bureaucratic wheels turn.  I don't want to be the employee from hell-" 

"Actually you're only a temp."

"You're right.  I am only a temp.  And I appreciate your willingness to bend the rules to grant my request.  But I'm going to be rude and also ask if there's any way - any way at all - that you can speed up the process.  If you can, I'll personally write to Rome to nominate you for sainthood and I'm sure my brother and all of his parishioners will remember you in their prayers for as long as they live."

Miss Lovell laughed, "Have you ever considered becoming a salesperson?"  She picked up a form and held it out to Sheila.  "Be sure to fill in your department and the name of your boss so I can send you a note when your box ships."

"I don't work in a department and I don't have a boss so that could be a tiny problem."

"I've never heard of anyone here not having a department and a boss."

"On my first day, Sue Bigatti in HR took me to this vacated office on the third floor and showed me how to scan hard copies of documents and turn them into digital files.  After I scan them, I shred them.  Simple as that.  I haven't seen her or any other supervisor since.  So I doubt if a communication sent through the mail room would get to me."

"I'll mail the postcard to the address you put on the request.  The mail room is a whole other story.  I cannot read the supervisor's handwriting."

"Neither can I!  Someone needs to talk to Carl about learning to write legibly or to switch to printing.  But since I'm only a temp, I don't think it should be me."

         

   

Chapter One - 3

Sheila's stomach hurt as she watched images of documents flash one after another on the monitor.  Not unexpected.  Stress always made her stomach ache.  The most reliable cure was food.  Junk food.  But she was trying to make healthy choices so sh'e have a healthy body in her later years.  She paused the scanner, shredded the documents that had already run through it, and opened a conatiner of fresh fruit and vegetables she'd brought from home.  She pushed the random button on her ipod and started the scanner.  New age music swirled in her ears.  No decernible melody - just the flow of notes.  Quite soothing.  Carrot, celery, apple, and grape.  She fell into a routine, broken only when she had to reprocess a paper that failed to scan clearly the first time through.

But the pain persisted.  She always said her quirky job was mind numbing and claimed that was one of its many advantages.  Perhaps a trail mix bar. 

She worked for a bout an hour.  She couldn't stop worrying.  Someone in Mateo probably would die before the day was over from lack of a common drug.  The village was so small everyone in it was like family to her brother.  It had to be very difficult for him be at their bedside and then to conduct masses for them.  Especially the children.  She thought of the tetracycline being packed and sent out through the mail room.  Hurry, hurry, she thought.

The mind numbing aspect, as she often described it, of her job wasn't working.  Thinking about finding another place to live set off more twinges of pain.  Carrot, celery, apple grape.  Nicholas wanted to live together, although he'd withdrawn the suggestion.  Carrot, celery, apple, grape.  And by far the worst of her personal situation, her brother, Richard or, as she and Tom used to call him-The Big Dick.

Time to break his strangle hold on her money.  She snapped off the scanner and shredded the documents that had been archived.  She left without having to ask permission or notify anyone.  Another advantage of her job.  As she drove toward Richard's law office, she called Nicholas to tell him she'd left work.  His voice mail kicked in.  In her state of mind, that was good.   

"I'm on my way to have it out with Richard," she said, "I need my money now.  It'll earn more in real estate than where ever he's got it."  She realized that she actually was arguing her case in a shrill voice.  "Sorry," she said, "I'll call you after I talk to him.  Dinner at my place tonight?"    

               

Chapter One -4

"I'm going to buy a house," Sheila said.

Her brother didn't even look up from the legal document he continued to read, "You can't afford a house," he said, "Unless it's in Timbuktu." 

"That's between me and my lender," she said, "I'll need my third of the money from Mom's estate."

"It's invested for you so you have something for your old age."

He always said that.  "My money will do better in real estate."  She stared at the bald spot on the top of his head.  "Escrow closes in thirty days.  I'll need a statement of my account and a certified check for my portion to put into the bank before I sign papers."

He looked up and said, "No."

She wanted to scratch his eyes out, "You can't say no-it's my-I'll get an attorney."

"Sheila, your life has been a series of bad - strike that - mediocre choices.  You're a mature woman and you have a job an amoeba could do."

"My job gives me the flexibility to travel whenever I want and has nothing to do with this."

"If you can't pay your mortgage and the bank forecloses, your nest egg will be gone.  Then what will you do when you need special care in your old age?"

In the worst case scenario, she thought, I'd never come to you.  She said, "I can always sell the place if I have to."

"The real estate bubble is going to burst.  Let's face it, you and your baby brother, the monk, have no sense when it comes to money.  You would have spent your share on shopping sprees and Tom would have given his to The Church, as if Rome needed it.  Mom knew that.  That's why she made me executor.  If it wasn't for me-"

"-there wouldn't even be an estate," Sheila finished for him.  After a moment she added, "Tom is not a monk.  He's a priest.  An excellent priest.  You didn't even have the decency to come to see him the last time he came home."

"I don't have time for people I can't make money on."

Richard was her older brother, but at moments like this, she wanted to strangle him.   He smiled as if that was the end of the matter and turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.  When she didn't get up and leave he said, "Something else?"

Sheila stood up, "You're really a shit head.  But you can't bully me.  Not this time.  I'll be back one week from today-"

Richard held up his hand to stop her.  It was maddening that he refused to look up at her as he spoke.  He said, "Even if I were inclined to hand money over to you, I'd need at least two weeks to convert your stocks and bonds into cash."

"Okay.  Two weeks from today.  No longer.  I'll be here at ten in the morning to pick up the statement and a check.  You better have both or else-" 

"Or else what?  You'll get an attorney?"

She slammed her hand down on his desk, "Look at me."

He actually jumped and looked up.  She loved that.

She said, "Don't fuck with me, Richard.  If you do, you'll be sorry.  Just have the statement and check ready.  Ten o'clock in the morning.  Two weeks from today." 

She left him, smiling to herself at his look of complete astonishment.      

Chapter Two

Five days after she put in the request for the tetracycline, she received a post card from Miss Lovell informing her that the box had gone out in the morning mail.  She had written on the bottom of the card that it should be there in three days.  So she had worked some magic.  Sheila was elated.  She called Nicholas and he congratulated her on a job well done.      

Sheila's life had become one round after another of work, looking for a condo, sorting through her possessions, and packing.  Nicholas called her while she was at work to shore her up.  He went with her from one condo to another in spite of the fact that she couldn't make an offer on any of them until she had her money.  He carried items to the thrift store or to the trash bins behind the Von's store on the corner of PCH.  He took her out to dinner near midnight when she worked long hours to make up for being out looking at condos during the day.  He helped her pack.  And most importantly, he never mentioned moving in together.  How could she not love a man like that?   

All of this was stressful business.  A plastic zip bag of carrots, celery, apples, and grapes took up most of the space in her purse and was usually empty by the time she arrived home.  A meltdown was inevitable.  A mini meltdown came when she had punched in early to catch up on archiving documents.  She was exhausted and her nerves were frazzled.  Only two days until she went back to Richard's law office.  The thought that he might not have the statement and check for her sent pains shooting through her stomach.  She munched vegetables and fruit and watched the image of a document flash on the monitor for half a second only to be replaced by the next. 

"Damnittohell!" she said.  She backed the memory file up to make sure she'd caught the first of blurred papers.  They were, of course, mail room shipping labels and postage requisitions filled out by Carl.  He did this as a favor to people who came down without the proper paper work to send out packages.  He'd have them sign the bottom and then he'd fill them in.  The postage machine printed the weight and shipping charges on the box and the requisition so that part was clear on the documents. It always seemed to be the department of origin and contents that he scrawled illegibly.  She grabbed the one that had gone through the scanner and half a dozen more of Carl's requisitions, with the department of origin impossible to read, and, although she had no authority to do so, she headed for the mail room. 

She found Carl running shoe box sized packages and requisitions through the postage machine.  "I need to talk to you," she shouted over the noise. 

"Who are you?" he said without pausing the machine.

"It's really important," she said anger rising in her voice.

He shut off the machine, "You got a minute."

She waved the postage requisitions in front of him, "Your handwriting is so bad these documents are useless." 

"After you file those, no one is ever going to look at them."  He restarted the machine.

"People look at them all the time," she yelled. 

He shut the machine off.  "Why would anyone to do that?"

"To settle customer disputes about packing or billing.  Beckman has a whole legal department that works with these.  Not to mention the accountants."

"Really?" 

He suddenly seemed very interested.  She said, "You seem like a nice enough guy.  No point in getting fired for poor penmanship."

"Who did you say you were?"

"Sheila.  In Archives." 

"Thanks for the heads up," he said and went back to running his boxes and requisitions through the postage machine.

Sheila felt so much better after that exchange, she allowed herself to have five Mike and Ike's while she scanned and shredded more documents.   

In the middle of the next afternoon, her cell phone rang and showed her brother Tom's number.  She smiled as she said, "Hello, Tom.  I hope the box I sent wasn't too bashed up by the time it arrived."

"The box of tetracycline never got here." 

"It should have been there five or six days ago."

"I forgot to ask you to black out any reference to Beckman Pharmaceuticals on it.  Damn.  The box probably never made it through customs or was stolen along the way.  Can you get another and send it super fast?"

Sheila bit her lip to keep from saying no, but she couldn't imagine Miss Lovell working her magic again, especially not for a temp.  Her brother sounded so exhausted and desperate she said, "Don't worry, Tom, I promise another box will go out first thing in the morning."

She went back to scanning and shredding.  As the papers flowed, she decided to go around and asking various people if they'd exercised their drug donation option.  Once again, she turned off the scanner and shredder without having even made a dent in the growing rows of documents that lined the shelves.  She made a promise that she would work day and night until she was caught up. 

A guy in the lab, running experiments on horse urine, told her he hadn't designated his box.  When he agreed to donate it to the clinic in Colombia, she put the correct form on his desk, handed him a pen, and guided him through the paper work.  The was the end of her part one of her plan.  The tricky part was circumventing the days of delay while corporate wheels turned again.  Part two of the plan came to her in a flash of inspiration.  She prepared some phony documents and made several phone calls.  The last was to Nicholas. 

As soon as he picked up, he said, "Are you ready to go out to look at condos?"

"Change of plans," she said.

"One of the girls here asked me if I'd like to go on a three day cruise."

"What?"

"Another girl here was going to go with her, you know double occupancy and all, but she go sick.  This couldn't have come along at a better time.  Three days of rest will set me up to power through getting a place and moving."

"What about tomorrow?  You were going to get your money from Richard.  I made special plans for dinner."  He paused and then added, "To celebrate."         

"I'll get the money as soon as I come back.  We can celebrate then.  Please don't be disappointed.  I really need the rest."

She worked until the building was nearly deserted.  With the request in her hand, she headed to the mail room.  No on was around the big table where temps sat to stuff envelopes. The postage machines were silent.  It was kind of scary.  "Is Carl here," she asked a kid pushing a cart full of letters.

"Dinner," the kid said.

Perfect, Sheila thought.  She said, "I need to check the address on a box to make sure the information on it is correct."

"Good luck in finding it," the kid said and pushed the cart toward the letter processing center at the opposite end of the the huge room. 

Sheila set to work looking through the stacks of boxes for one that contained tetracycline.  After a few minutes, she found one.  She took the packing and shipping labels off and went to find the kid.

"You were right," she said.  "I couldn't find the right box.  I left the paperwork with the correct address on Carl's desk.  Please tell Carl that Miss Lovell, in Philanthropic Services, would like it to go out right away."

"No problem," the kid said.

Sheila went back to the stack of boxes waiting to be sent.  Trying not to look suspicious, she glanced around to see if the coast was clear.  She picked up the box of tetrcycline and walked away with it.  If anyone stopped her, she would tell them that it needed a new packing label.  She didn't need to tell that little lie because, for once, luck was on her side.

Security had top priority at Beckman and Sheila was sure her actions were being recorded, if not watched on spy cams.  Night guards might descend on her at any moment.  She slipped into the nearest ladies room where she had stashed her work out bag in hopes spy cams were illegal in restrooms.  After ripping open the package, she put all of the drugs into the bag and then piled her work out clothes on top of them.  She removed the shipping label from it's sleeve and stuffed it into the bag, too.  She had crammed the collapsed box into the trash and was just finishing up stuffing the packing material in on top of it when a woman came in."

Sheila said, "I wish people would clean up after themselves."

"Kids," the woman said and entered a stall. 

The night guard knew her quite well because of her irregular schedule.  Her heart pounded so hard as he unzipped her bag and pawed through the top layer of clothes she was sure it would give her away.  He stopped when he came to her jogging bra.  She feared his fingers had brushed against the hard plasitic of the pill containers.  But he just covered her bra with her sweats and said, "Have a good evening."

It was all she could do to keep herself from running out of the building.  Once outside, she ran as fast as she could to her car.  She made a quick stop home for a change of clothes.  She transferred the pills to a backpack and picked up her passport.  In less than ten minutes , she was on the 405 freeway driving toward LAX and her flight to Medillin.   

 

            

Chapter Three

After the scant meal was served, passengers settled down for the over night flight to Cali.  Sheila couldn't sleep and couldn't get interested in the movie, an action adventure movie short on character development and emotion depth. 

She felt guilty.  At that very moment, she was supposed to be having a special dinner with Nicholas.  She wondered if "a special dinner" might have also included another proposal from him, a real proposal of marriage with someone jumping out from behind a plant to take a picture of him on one knee holding out a ring box to her.  She had treated Nicholas so shabbily.  Even if a real proposal wasn't in the offer, she'd ignored the special plans he'd made supposedly for some lame cruise with some girl she hardly knew.  Nicholas was a wonderful man and deserved much better treatment than she'd given him lately.  As soon as she had delivered the tetracycline to Tom, she'd fly home and make amends. 

She dug into her purse for a mint and instead found the letter Tom had written to her not long after he'd arrived in Mateo.  She opened it carefully because the paper was becoming thin in the folds.  As she read the history and his description of the village, scenes appeared in her head as if they were part of a costume drama. 

Three mountain ranges, known as the Cordillera de los Andes, run north/south through the western side of Colombia.  The Cordillera Central is the highest and its uppermost peaks are perpetually covered with snow.  Along one of the many ridges of this mountain ran a foot path that, over time, became a trail for horses and then a roadway for wagons and coaches traveling between the new towns of Medellin and Cali.  Travelers were warned that heavy rains might wash out the road and that their trip could take nearly a month.  The decision to make the journey wasn't to be taken lightly.   

In 1875, Robert Bermudez, whose business of raising and selling coffee beans was undergoing unrepresented success, decided to expand his interests to include Medellin.  He set off northward by private coach with his wife Rosemarie and their seven year old daughter Bernadette.  Following behind were another coach carrying their servants and several wagons carrying household goods and supplies to set up his new business. 

On the ninth day of their journey, Rosemarie said, "Bernadette has a fever."  She placed her husband's hand on the girl's forehead so he could judge for himself.  As they bumped along, Rosemarie doused her daughter with water from her canteen, but the fever grew worse.  Bowel cramps set in.  Rosemarie demanded that the coach be stopped so they could take Bernadette out from its hot con-finds into the cool air.

"I'm very worried," Rosemarie said as she placed Bernadette on the blankets the servants had brought out as a makeshift bed.  She frequently took her daughter into the bushes where foul smelling stool ran from her.  By afternoon, the little girl was too weak to get up. 

"We have to do something," Rosemarie cried, "Or Bernadette will die!"

"What can we do without medicine?" Robert said. 

"Excuse me, Sir," Rubin, driver of one of the wagons stepped forward to say, "There is a pool of cool water not far from here."

It was decided that they'd take Bernadette there in hopes that submerging her in the cool water would break her fever.  The coaches and wagons travel along the road until they came to a break in the trees. 

"There is no road," Rubin apologized.

The bumpy ride caused Bernadette, in a groggy state, to cry and mumble in a language her parents could not understand. 

"Hurry! Hurry!" Rosemarie said. "Before it is too late!"   

When they arrived at the pool, they discovered that a beautiful waterfall splashed down into it.  Robert carried his daughter to the edge of the pool and then stepped into the water holding her tightly.  It was cold enough to make him gasp.  Bernadette shrieked and tried to break away from her father.   

"Don't fight the water, Mija, it will make you well again." 

"You must take her under to wet her head," Rosemarie called from the rocks.

"Hold your breath," Robert said. 

"No, Papa," Bernadette screamed.

But it was too late.  Her father was swimming into deeper water, letting it take them both under.  He kept her down as long as he thought safe and let her come up for a breath before taking her under again and again. He tried to make a game of it.  Bernadette refused to play along. 

Finally she wailed, "I want to get out now!"

The strength of her cry convinced Rosemarie that her daughter was already getting better.  "Bring her to me," she said.  She laid her little girl on a blanket and loosened her clothes so the mountain breeze could cool her even more.  After a while she put her hand on all of a fever's favorite hiding places.  Bernadette's forehead, the back of her neck, and the backs of her knees were normal.  "The fever is gone," Rosemarie said.

"Es un milagro," the servants and workman shouted.  They clapped their hands and danced around in celebration. 

"Yes," Robert said, "It's a miracle.  We should all give thanks."

They knelt down and offered up a prayer of thanks to God for curing Bernadette.

Robert was so grateful that, as soon as he arrived in Medellin, he petitioned the Roman Catholic Church to declare the recovery of his daughter a true miracle.  After the witnesses had given their testimony and Robert had made a huge donation to The Church, it was so declared.  Robert was given permission to build a small chapel, with his own money of course, on a flat piece of land near the waterfall.  He called it The Little Chapel of the Miracle of Our Lady of the Andes. 

Word of the miracle and of the refreshing waters in the pool below the falls spread quickly among travelers between Cali and Medellin.  They stopped there regularly to water their horses and to bathe.  On their way to and from the pool, each one removed a rock or a root that made the way rough going.  Soon horses hooves and wagon wheels crushed the grass into two parallel lines and then the lines became a road.  A small inn was built for travelers have a meal and to rest over night.  Each Sunday, after mass, a market sprang up on the green grass in front of the two buildings. 

And so it went until the coming of the internal combustion engine.  Cars and truck rushed by the old wooden signs that pointed the way down to the church and inn without so much as slowing down.  The inn closed its doors forever in 1957, but Sunday mass and the outdoor market continued.  The inn became a clinic for volunteers who brought medicine from the cities.  Now and then a volunteer would come and set up a classroom in one of the sleeping chambers. 

There is a little cemetery on a hill behind the tiny town of Mateo, Sheila's brother had written.  Buried there are some of the priests and doctors and teachers who came here to help, fell in love with the village and villagers, and never wanted to leave.             

Mateo sounded like such an idyllic place.  Sheila could hardly wait to see it.  She folded the letter and put it back into its envelope.  She tucked it into the thin zippered compartment of her purse, where she had kept it every since it had arrived. 

Chapter Four

The rich aroma of coffee woke Sheila.  Colombian, she assumed.  She check to make sure her backpack still was stowed under the seat in front of her.  then she accepted a cup of coffee and a danish from the flight attendant.  She took a sip and decided it was the best she'd ever had.  Describing it to Nicholas when she returned home would make her sound like a wine connoisseur.  Full bodied without being aggressive.  She took another sip and savored it.  The danish was dried out and cold.  She dunked it in the coffee and ate it eagerly.   

"Pardon me," the man sitting next to her said in a thick Latin American accent.  "I notice you're alone on the plane."

"I am," she said cautiously.

"May I ask if anyone is meeting you after we clear customs?"

Sheila hesitated to reveal such an important bit of information to a complete stranger.

"Let just say that the airport is a very dangerous place.  Men dressed like...what is the English...porters...will offer to help you with your luggage.  Most of them are thieves.  So are most of the cab drivers.  Many of the people at the luggage," he made a circular gesture with his hand.

"Carousel?"

"Yes.  Men and women go there to steal bags."

"I didn't check any bags.  I only have my purse and a backpack."

"There will be lots of pick pockets."

"I'll be very careful."

"My name is Jorge. if no one is meeting you, I would consider it an honor if you'd let me escort you to a safe cab."

He was a big man.  Probably thirty-five or so.  The thought crossed her mind that he could be a thief or worse, but that was ridiculous.  She told him her name and said, "Thank you very much, Jorge, I'd appreciate your help." 

After a moment she added, "I'm not going to get a cab.  I'm going to take the bus toward Cali.  I'm going to Mateo.  It's a small town about half way there."

"I could lie to you, Senorita, and say that I am taking the same bus.  But the truth is that my country, I've very embarrassed to admit, is not safe for travelers.  Especially a woman traveling alone.  My business is such that I will be in both cities.  I would feel much better if you'd let me accompany you on the bus - after which I'll go on and take care of my work."

"What an extraordinary offer," Sheila said.

"Then it is agreed?"

Jorge was right.  The airport was crowded with many more people than could have had a legitimate reason for being there.  She held the medicine bag in fron with both arms keeping it tight against her.  The airport was noisy, dusty, and filled with the smells body odor and spicy food.  The sounds of announcements she couldn't understand and of thousands of people talking very rapidly in Spanish and other languages swirled around her.  She heard the occasional cognate, but it was really quite disorienting.  She was very happy that she'd agreed to let Jorge act as her guide and protector. 

"Stay very close to me, por favor," he said.  As they walked toward the customs inspectors, he helped her loop the strap of her purse over her head.  He went through first.  He greeted the inspector by shaking his hand and speaking to him very pointedly.  She understood him to say that they were traveling together and that they had nothing to declare.  When Jorge released the man's hand, it went straight into his pocket.      

Jorge turned to her and lifted her purse so it was in front of her and above her waist.  "Hold your pack close to your body to protect this," he said.      

They were immediately engulfed by the crowd.  He always seemed to know when someone or a team was going to jostle them.  He'd put his body between her and the others.  Sometimes he'd put his foot against them and pushed them back.  He even punched the most aggressive.  Sheila did her best not to loose her footing as she struggled along beside him.  All the while he shouted what had to be curses.  Finally they went out onto the sidewalk and the crush of people thinned a little, but the attempts to steal from them continued as they walked toward the bus for Cali.          

Headlights and bumper sagged making it look as if it bore a sinister expression.  Its green paint had given way to rust.  No tread on the tires.  Luggage, bags, boxes, and a very large crucifix stowed up top caused it to sink well down on its springs.  Worst of all, the engine sounded as if it might conk out at any moment. 

Jorge protected her from the crush of passengers trying to board.  He shook hands with the driver ans said, "Mateo."  The driver nodded.  Jorge guided her to a pair of seats.  He very generously insisted that she take the one next to the window.  Sheila settled into the seat, keeping the pack of medicine on her lap.  When every person possible had crammed themselves and their possessions and animals into the bus, others climbed on top and stood on the running board.  Finally the bus, with much straining and grinding of gears, shuddered forward.

Sheila's heart thumped a couple of happy beats when she realized that in a few hours she'd be with her brother.  Doctor Neill would have the tetracycline.  People wouldn't die.  The thought of that made her feel a tiny bit like a superhero. 

She would stay over night and maybe even tomorrow night.  But then she'd have to get back to one city or the other and fly home.  Nicholas would be anxious about her and her sudden departure.  In his own way, he looked after her, albeit in much less dire circumstances, as fully as she would permit.  She tried to imagine Nicholas kicking people away and punching them to protect her.  It was a bit of a stretch.  But maybe not.  No telling how a person might behave outside their normal realm.         

                   

Chapter Four - 2

All of the windows in the bus were opened or broken out.  A slight breeze came in as they moved along, but it was hot, humid air and didn't do much to cool Sheila.  The bus slowly climbed a series of switch backs in the highway until it reached a ridge and was able to travel on a somewhat level surface.  For a while, Sheila and Jorge rode along in silence because her face was turned toward the window and the fabulous view.  The Cordillera Central reminded her of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, born of violent collisions of continental masses and young in mountain years. Its very high peaks stood jagged against the blue sky.  The valley below, beyond the city, was divided into contiguous rectangles of all sizes and shades of green and golden yellows.  Houses and copses dotted the landscape.  Narrow, dirt roads connected them one to another.  Shadows of clouds passed swiftly over the landscape. 

Jorge took out some papers from his duffel and read them, making notes here and there on the pages.  Not wanting to disturb him, she kept her attention of the scenery for quite some time.  All below had grown noticeably smaller.  The bus entered a dense forest.  Screams of animals and cries of birds filled the air.  When passing by a deep crevasse, Sheila saw at least a hundred mc caws hanging on the steep cliffs.  She turned to Jorge and said, "It's magical."

He put his papers away.  They began to chat.  Jorge worked for a coffee grower with distributors in Medellin and Cali. Sheila told him the story of the Chapel of the Miracle of Our Lady of the Andes and that her brother was the priest there.  He had heard of the story and knew the chapel, but he didn't work for the coffee company founded by Robert Bermudez.  Jorge had five children ranging in age from eleven to six months.  She told him about having to move and how expensive houses were in southern California. 

The bus lurched to a halt.  The passengers groaned and shouted.  Shouting also came from men who had surrounded the bus.  Sheila turned to Jorge, "Thieves?"

He nodded, "Do exactly as they say.  Do not speak.  If they discover you are North American, they may kidnap you." 

A woman in front of them passed a big, black lace mantia back over the seat to Sheila.  She took it and whispered, "Gracias."  When she stood up to get off the bus, as Jorge said they were ordered to do, she wrapped herself in the mantia.  It covered her from her head down to her knees, hiding both her purse and the medicine bag.  She stood in line with the others.  Her head down.  Jorge standing beside her.  All of the bandits carried weapons.  Some had old looking rifles and pistols.  Others had what she believed were uzis.  Minus the weapons, they looked like very young street thugs that had grown up in the poor neighborhoods found in most cities of the U.S.  Babies and children in the line cried.  Their mothers tried to quiet them.

One of the thieves approached each person in line and searched them, taking all of their valuables and money.  When they came to Sheila, she held out her purse.  They took her money and credit cards.  Their leader used the tip of his uzi to open the mantia.  When he saw the backpack, she ripped the the mantia from her and grabbed the bag.  He pulled it from her and was about to open it. 

"No!" she shouted.

Jorge said, "Por favor," to her.

She turned to him and said, "Tell him I'm a scientist carrying samples to the University of Cacao."

"Senorita," Jorge begged.

But Sheila had prepared a story just in case they might be robbed.  "Tell him," she hissed.

Jorge spoke to the lead thief, throwing lots of respects, and beg your pardons, and por favors.      

"Tell him the samples are of germs.  If he touches them, he'll get a very bad disease."

Jorge gave her an incredulous look, but he repeated what Sheila had said.  The two of them exchanged a few words and then Jorge turned to Sheila, "He wants to know what disease."

"Ebola," Sheila said resolutely.

"Ebola," Jorge repeated. 

The bandits and the people in line picked up the word and passed it along.  The leader said something. 

Jorge said, "He doesn't believe you."

The leader found the tab for pulling open the zipper, "No!"  Many people in line, Sheila included, shouted.  The thief pulled the zipper and the bag started to come undone.  Everyone screamed, "Ebola!  Ebola!"  But he kept pulling the zipper.

Sheila couldn't let another supply of drugs slip through her hands.  She charged the bandit and caught hold of the bag.  She amazed herself with her strength.  A real tug of war ensued.  The other thieves held everyone back by pointing their weapons at them.  Sheila had a death grip on the pack and wasn't going to let go.  Then another thief with an uzi stepped forward and pointed his weapon at both of them.  They stopped struggling, but each kept their hands on the bag. 

The second bandit looked at Sheila and said, "Ebola?"

She said, "Si."

He took the bag from both of them.  With a mighty swing, he tossed it over the cliff.  It arched up, hung in the air for a moment, and then plummeted down until it disappeared below the ridge line.

Sheila Was too shocked to cry.  She walked back and took her place in line.  She managed to stand there while the bandits took whatever they wanted from the defenseless passengers, including a wicker cage that had three chickens in it.    When they were allowed to get back on the bus, she felt like a zombie walking to her seat and sitting in it as the bus rolled on toward Mateo. 

      

     

 

      

      

Chapter Four - 3

"I'm sorry about your parcel," Jorge said.  "It must have contained something very valuable."

The story of her two attempts to get tetracycline to Mateo poured forth.  She fought back tears as she spoke.  She finished by saying, "Now more people will die."

"The Lord has a plan," Jorge said.

"Some plan!  Give me a life saving drug, have me carry it to within ten miles of the dying, and then let it be taken from me and destroyed?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways."

"I'm sorry, Jorge, but I'm not a believer."

"That you do not believe doesn't make it any less true," Jorge said.

Sheila had argued many such questions with her brother to no end.  He had the gift of faith.  She did not.  No point in one trying to change the other.  She turned away from Jorge and rested her head against the hard frame of the window.  They bounced along the highway in silence while others on the bus chattered and animals squawked.  The view continued to be spectacular and stretched away a hundred mile or more.  Shadows of clouds still scuttled across the valley with its crazy quilt of farms.  In stead of comforting her, the beauty of the Colombian mountains and valleys depressed her.  She was mad at God for creating such a beautiful place and then letting such a terrible thing happen in it. 

The bus jerked to a halt and the driver called, "Mateo." 

"Mateo," Jorge tapped her on the shoulder, "This is where you get off."

Sheila said, "No!"

Jorge pointed to an old wooden sign next to a rutted dirt road leading down and away from the highway.  It said Mateo and La Capilla de Nuestra Senora de los Andes de Milagros.  Sheila thought, too bad Our Lady of the Andes and her miracles hadn't been around when the bandits stopped the bus. 

"Mateo," the bus driver called impatiently.

"I can't show up without the tetracycline," Sheila said.  "Please tell the driver I'm not getting off."

"You've come all this way.  I'm sure your brother would want you to visit, with or without the medicine."

"No," Sheila said firmly. 

Jorge spoke to the driver  and the bus creaked forward.

As it rounded the next curve, Sheila saw an unmistakable, tall, and slim figure walking along side the highway with a group of kids.  She ducked down in her seat so that only her eyes were above the bottom ledge of the window. 

Tom wore the old fashioned long, black robe of his calling.  The fabric was light cotton and the garment was much cooler, he'd written than the modern shirts and trousers of city priests.  He raised his hand and the bus driver pulled over.  Sheila ducked down as far as she could.  Tom stepped onto the bus and spoke to the driver.

"He's asking the driver if there is a box from the states for the doctor," Jorge whispered.

Oh God, Sheila thought, please don't let the driver or anyone else say anything.  She held her breath.  They talked for a moment longer and then her brother said, "Gracia."

Sheila sat up and peeked out the side window.  Tom stepped down onto the side of the road.  Children surrounded him.  There was lots of chatter with her brother shaking his head and shrugging.  "Manana.  Manana," he said.  The bus eased forward.  Tom made the children step back out of harms way.

His face was very thin, but his belly bulged under his robe.  The paunch, she thought.  He wore the high tech looking sunglasses she'd sent him to protect his left eye which had been injured in a wrestling accident.  He'd been worried that the damage might keep him from studying to be a priest.  The crucifix, carved from dogwood, that the family - even Richard had chipped in - had given him when he took his vows, hung around his neck.  Tom raised a rather beat up flop hat just as she rolled by.  His head cocked to one side in question, as he'd always done when he was little. 

Sheila closed her eyes.  When she opened them, the bus was beyond the little group.  She looked out the back window.  Tom had stepped onto the highway and stood watching.  He raised his hands up, yet another of his gestures asking a question.  A single tear rolled down one of her cheeks.  She regretted that she wasn't able to make herself stop and visit.  But she couldn't show up empty handed, not when lives depended on her bringing medicine.  She'd have to find a way to get another box and to get it to Doctor Neill without fail.  Nothing else mattered.             

Chapter Five

"I picked up a bug on the cruise," Sheila said to Nicholas, "I need to rest."

"You went on the cruise to rest."

"It's kind of hard to rest when you're throwing up every five minutes."  She hated questions that bordered on holding her accountable.  She was fifty-eight years old, not a teenager. 

Nicholas said, "I'm sorry about your bug.  Can I bring you anything?  Something easy on the stomach?"

"A fifty-fifty ice cream bar sounds good."

"As soon as you're well enough, I'd like to take you out for that special dinner date." 

Oh dear, she thought.  Her intuition told her that the special dinner with Nicholas might include a proper proposal.  She couldn't even think about it with so many other things on her mind.  She said, "I promise to call you the minute I wake up."

But Sheila couldn't sleep.  She was terribly behind at work and she felt horrible about letting down Tom and the whole village of Mateo.  She had two very big problems.  Getting another box of tetracycline would be nearly impossible.  If she did get one, she had no idea how to make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands or get destroyed before it reached Mateo.  And she also had the ongoing housing problem and the need to see Richard. 

She fled to the sanctuary of her room at Beckman and worked for three hours.  The scanner held up fine under her fast pace, but she had to turn off the industrial strength shredder several times because it over heated.  While waiting for the umpteenth time for the shredder to cool down, Sheila glanced through the documents she was about to scan.  More copies of shipping labels from the mail room.  More filled out by Carl.  More with squares that couldn't be read.  Department of origin.  Contents.  Two necessary bits of information to anyone trying to solve a shipping problem.  At least the weight of each package was clearly indicated because the postal meter, after weighting the package, automatically printed it on the paperwork and the box at the same time. Then she noticed that every package sent out with one of the illegible shipping labels in this group weighted 2.2046  pounds.      

Two point two pounds sounded familiar.  Wasn't there a song, back in the seventies with something about two point two pounds in it?

Her train of thought was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone.  She checked caller I.D. before answering.  She didn't want to have to explain to Nicholas why she was at work instead of at home resting.  But it was Tom calling so she was saved any further deception.  She opened her phone and said, "Tom, did the tetracycline finally get there?"

An unfamiliar voice said, "Sheila, this is doctor Neill O'Brien.  I run the little medical facility in Mateo."

She said, "I know, Tom's mentioned you many times.  Is everything okay?" 

"The tetracycline did not get here, but that's not why I called."

"Doctor Neill, is my brother okay?"

"He's very sick.  He's come down with a very bad case of typhus.  I have nothing to treat him with and, to be honest, I don't know if he can beat this thing."

"Oh, God,!" she sobbed.

"He's delirious and keeps saying he saw you on the bus the other day.  I think that's his way of saying he'd like to see you."

"I'll get there as soon as I can." 

"Can you get more tetracycline?"

She didn't know how, but she said, "Yes, I can get more."

"Good.  Let me give you the number of a very reliable car service that you can use." 

She could have kicked herself for not thinking of that.  If she had - she stopped herself from wasting time on thoughts like that.  She said, "Doctor Neill, please be honest, how long do you think Tom has?"

"Without medication, about five days." 

   

 

      

Chapter five -2

Senior moments, Sheila's friends called them.  They'd all experienced the sudden refusal of the brain to supply the name of an acquaintance, a book, or an ingredient in a favorite recipe.  They'd fill in the blanks for each other when they could or nod that they knew the illusive word and the conversation would continue.  The part that had always amazed Sheila was that often, when the brain was otherwise engage, it continued to seek the word.  And when she was involved in a completely unrelated matter, it would suddenly come to her.

While running the scanner and the shredder, with her mind working overtime to figure out how she was going to get more tetracycline and get it to Mateo, she thought : one kilo.  Two point two zero four six pounds equaled one kilo.  She still couldn't think of the song from the seventies, but she now remembered that it had something to do with cocaine.  She went over to the shelves of documents waiting to be processed.  It took her about fifteen minutes, but she found a batch of postage requisitions.  She flipped through them, pulling out the ones having Carl's unreadable scrawl.  Each one was for a package that weighted two point two zero four pounds, or one kilo.  She said, "You dirty dog."

Going down in the elevator to the mail room, she devised a plan.  The doors slid open revealing a mass of busy people.  About twenty-five temps sat at a huge table and stuffed envelopes with the 10,000 monthly bills that would have to go out in the afternoon mail.  Boxes, waiting to go out, occupied every available space to the point of violating safety regulations.  Three people stood in front of Carl pelting him with questions.  He looked like he hadn't showered in days and like might collapse.

Sheila stepped in front of the others waiting to talk to him and held out the papers for him to see.  "I need to talk to you in you office," she said.  "Right now!"

With a look of great disdain he said, "I don't have time."

She leaned in close to him and said, "Maybe you have time to figure out the metric equivalent of two point two pounds."

He reacted as if he'd been sucker punched.  He wheezed and leaned on a near by table for support.

One of the mail room clerks said, "Are you okay?"

"I'll be in my office," he said.  "Door closed."

When she and Carl were seated on opposite sides of his desk, she said, "I know you use the mail room to ship cocaine."  He started to object, but she went on, "I've created a separate file of your requisitions.  Each one has the name and address of the person who received a kilo from you."

He smiled, "Since you came to me instead of going to management or the cops, I assume you want hush money.  I can handle a one time, cost of doing business payout.  But that's all.  Understand?"

Sheila said, "I don't want money."

He looked very surprised, "What do you want?"

"I need to meet your supplier."

"You're out of your fucking mind."

"You're going to hate it in prison."  She stood up and started for the door.

"Wait!" he said, "Christ I can't even remember your name."

She sat down and said, "I'm Sheila from Archives.  You've left quite a data trail."

"Listen, Sheila Archive, we can work something out."

"I want to meet your supplier.  You want to stay out of prison.  There's nothing to work out."

"You don't know what you're asking.  It's very complicated."

"First rule of business - don't bore a customer with your internal problems.  They don't give a shit.  Contact your supplier, the one who brings the cocaine into the country - not some middle man, and arrange for us to meet.  Or I'll send my file to the DEA."

"It's no that simple."

Sheila stood up, "Actually it is." 

 

                     

Chapter Six

Carl called her from an inside line and said, "He insists on choosing the place."

Sheila said, "Fine as long as it public.  I'll meet you in the parking lot in five minutes."

"What for?"

"You're going to bring me the biggest box of drugs you can find."  She hung up her phone.  Second rule of business, if there's someone who can do a job better than you, use them.  Carl probably bribed someone to let him bring the kilos of cocaine into Beckman so let him bribe that person to let him bring out the meds.  She went down to the parking lot and stood beside her car.  Carl approached a few minutes later, empty handed.

"Where-"

"Couldn't chance it."  He made a circular gesture with his hand.  "Security cameras.  There's a vacuum repair shop on Merrill Street in Huntington Beach.  You can pick up the box there in about an hour."   

"If anything happens to me-"

"Spare me.  Be at Dos Hombres in Temecula at seven.  The guy you're going to meet goes by Bird."

"How will I recog-"

"He'll find you."  Carl started to walk away, but turned back and said, "This is your gig.  If something happens and you don't come back, it's not on me." 

      

Chapter 6-2

On the way to Temecula, Sheila realized that she hadn't called Nicholas.  She took her cell phone out of her purse, but then thought better of it.  He was probably home and she couldn't bring herself to lie to him voice to voice.   

With her Mapquest print out in her hand, she exited the fifteen south at Temecula.  Dos Hombres stood at the center of a strip mall designed to look like a Mexican village.  Red tile roofs topped beige stucco walls.  Heavy timber pergolas supported bougainvilleas in wild red bloom and swagged strands of little white lights.  A beautiful fountain, decorated with hand painted tiles, splashed happily in front of the restaurant.  The irony was almost too painful.

It was well past the dinner hour.  She stood inside the door a moment to give the man known as Bird an opportunity to approach her, but the place was deserted except for an old man sitting at the bar talking to the bartender.  So she stepped up to the reception desk and requested a large booth facing the door.  "I'm expecting some one else," she told the server.  "I'll wait to order." 

"Something to drink, Senorita?" he said.

"A strawberry margarita, with salt, please."

He returned with her drink and chips and salsa.  She sipped the margarita.  Sweet and salty and cold and thick with crushed ice, it was the best and most refreshing drink in the world.  She was glad that she had arrived before Bird.  The last few hours had been insanely busy.  After picking up the box of drugs, she'd stopped at Hank's Sporting Goods and, with the help of a very knowledgeable sales person, she'd outfitted herself for her return to Mateo.  From her Tilly flop hat down to her water proof, quick drying boots, she was good to go.  She especially like the khaki pants that could be converted to shorts.  The walking stick with the compass in the top knob was an impulse buy, but might come in handy.  She'd unpacked the box of medicine and repacked it in a backpack that had a titanium frame and straps to put around her waist to keep it from bouncing around.  Perhaps she'd gone a bit over the top.  No matter.  Gearing up was the way southern Californians did sports.  In many cases that took longer and was more interesting to them than participating in the activity.  And shopping had helped her pass the time until the meeting with the drug runner.  The gear, including the medicine, was laid out on the bed in the guest room.  Her stomach fluttered and shooting pains were sure to follow.  She dipped a chip into the salsa and bit into it.  She ate several more

She'd glanced at the door a dozen times trying to spot Bird before he spotted her.  She imagined him as twenty-something, small, dark haired, and with swarthy skin.  A combination of Pablo Escobar and Noriaga, who bore the nick name pizza face because his complexion was so bad.  Her heart skipped a beat.  She'd been so busy acting tough with Carl that she'd forgotten to ask if Bird spoke English.

"What can I do for you?"

Sheila looked up and found that the man from the bar stood next to the table.  She'd thought he was a customer, but apparently he WAs a server.   

"I'm waiting for someone." she said.

He sat down across the table.  "I don't have a lot of time, lady."

"You're Bird?"   

He looked like an unkempt version of the handsome one of the Beach Boys.  That was a surprise and so was the fact that he was tall and fair skinned.  Hair was long, in need of washing, and messy.  He needed a shave.  His clothes were wrinkled.  No surprises there.  But he had be her age or older.  That was unexpected.

"I'm sorry.  I was expecting someone a lot younger."       

He said, ""In my profession, longevity is proof of how well I do my job.  Did you bring some money?" 

"I withdrew $9,999 from the bank.  Any more would have brought unwanted attention."

"Smart.  So what do you want?"

"I have a backpack full of medicine that must get to Mateo.  That's a small-"

"Town off the Pan American Highway between Medellin and Cali?"

"Right."

"I happen to be going that way so I can give you a break.  Let's say twenty grand.  The money you have in your purse, plus one dollar, now and the other half when I come back and present proof that I've been to Mateo."

"I have a problem-"

"Twenty G's."

"I'm taking the drugs.  I want you to take me."

"No way, Lady."  he got up and went back to the bar.

Sheila sat there extremely depressed and ate chips and salsa.  La Cucaracha played in the background, its bouncy rhythm about drove her crazy.  She finished her drink and ordered another.  She didn't leave because she didn't know how she would get the drugs safely to Doctor Neill without Bird's help.    She wasn't going to move until she had formulated plan B, which meant she'd be there for the rest of her natural life because there wasn't any alternative.  She went over to the bar and sat next to Bird.  Leaning in close to him, she said, "I just sold off three hundred fifty thousand dollars worth of stocks and bonds.  I was going to buy a house.  But I'll give it all to you if you-"

"Back to your booth," he said.

The server came to take their orders.  Bird asked for the taco salad.  She had the Fiesta Supreme sampler.  "Mucho grande," the waiter said.

"I know," she said, "Another margarita, por favor."

She told Bird about her two failed attempts to get medicine to Mateo.  "No offense, but I'm afraid  you'll take the medicine and my money.  Sell one and keep the other.  And I'll never see you again."

He put his left hand, palm up, onto the center of the table.  He used the index finger of his right hand to point to the place where the base of his left index finger joined the palm. "This is Medellin."  He drew an imaginary line across his palm to the outside bottom.  "This is Cali."  Another imaginary line led up to the base of his little finger, "Bogota."  He retraced the tri-angle again and again as they spoke.  "This area is known as the devil's tri-angle, the most dangerous place on earth."

"I know.  I was just there."

"The men who robbed the bus were the equivalent of a Los Angeles street gang.  Very tough in a civilized world.  Nothing compared to the real bad guys operating in Colombia."

She tossed fifty dollars onto the table and stood up, "It was nice meeting you," she said.

"Sit the fuck down," he hissed.  "I'll do it for the three fifty.  Payable immediately upon our return."

"Good."

"I just want o make sure you know what you're getting yourself into."

"I have no choice.  My brother will die if I don't do this."

"Just so we're clear.  You're paying me to take you in and, if all goes well, to bring you out.  If we get into a scrape, I'm going to look out for myself.  You'll have to do the same.  Understand?"

She nodded. 

"He laughed, "You don't have a clue, but I'll be happy to take you and your money.  When do you want to leave?"

"As soon as possible."

"Go home and wait."

"I live-

"I know where you fucking live, Lady."

"My name is Sheila."

He left the table and strolled back to the bar singing the name song.  "Sheila fo feela."

He was disgusting.  She hated him.  She was officially scared. 

   

Chapter seven

            All of the carrots, celery, apples, and grapes in the world wouldn’t have eased the pains shooting around in Sheila’s stomach.  This called for a Cold Stone chocolate sundae with strawberries and peanuts mixed in and whipped cream on top.  She ate it sitting at an outside table overlooking the beach.  Bird had left without giving her any details about their trip.  Her cell phone was on the table within quick reach.  If he knew where she lived, she assumed that he knew her number.  There was nothing she could do now except wait for a call. 

            While she drove back to Orange County, Nicholas had tried to call her twice, but she hadn’t answered.  Although she didn’t like texting, she thought it was as cumbersome as Morse code, after she finished her sundae; she tapped out a brief message.  “Brother Tom deathly ill.  Flying 2 Mateo ASAP.  Call U L8er.  Lve.”  The last was an impulse, equivalent to a bouquet of roses an errant man might give to his lady.  She felt badly about the off hand way she’d been treating Nicholas.  She wondered if it was just a by product of the stresses in her life or a sign of her true feelings for him.  As soon as she returned, she’d take time to figure that out.      

            At home, she surfed through hundreds of channels on the TV and checked her list of recorded programs.  None of them had the power to distract her.  She took a long, hot bath with plenty of Kiehl’s lavender, foaming bath liquid in the water.  But her secret, failsafe weapon against jangled nerves failed.  She emerged half an hour later and dried herself with a beach towel.  Her travel gear lay on the bed, looking almost like a person.  Flop hat with the safari shirt, pants, socks, and boots arranged in a row.  Her nerves screamed to get going.

            There was one last measure she could try to calm down.  Between her garage conversion cottage and the big house that fronted on the street, there was a yard of sorts.  Her landlord, when he’d occupied the house, had put in an endless pool.  A swim, with the jets set at a fast rate would take the edge off, it always did.  She put on her swimming suit and went outside. 

            The night was cool and quiet.  The scent from night blooming star jasmine, which covered the two side fences, filled the air.  Sheila turned on the pool lights and started the jets.  Of all things about the cottage and its location, the pool that worked like a water treadmill for swimming, might be the thing she’d miss most.  Since it held much less water than a standard length lap pool, her landlord could afford to heat the water to a comfortable temperature year round.  She sat on the edge and put her cell phone next to her.  Then she let herself down into the water.  Nice.  She pushed into the current, which was set too fast.  The remote control, at the end of its tether, floated next to her.  She clicked it, decreasing the force of water being pumped toward her, until she could stay in place swimming at a relaxed pace. 

            It took a few moments for her to get into a rhythm.  When she did, she swam and everything that was making her nervous was left in her wake.  After about half an hour, she was comfortably tired and thought she might be able to sleep.  She turned off the jets, but was reluctant to get out of the pool.  Water aerobics, which she learned at the Corona del Mar Senior Center, also relaxed her so she positioned herself at one of the grab bars and did ankle flexes.  The jitters came back.  One dive under water, she thought, and then I’ll get out and put on a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and wait to hear from Bird.

            As soon as she went under, a thunderous noise and tremendous vibrations shook the water.  Earthquake her brain screamed.  Images of half of southern California falling into the Pacific flashed through her head as she swam to the surface of the water. As she looked up, brilliant, white light nearly blinded her.  Her mind offered explanations.  A huge meteor streaking across the sky.  You’re dead.  Don’t go into the light. 

            She broke through the surface of the water.  A helicopter, with a basket suspended below it, hovered over the tread pool.  She put her hand over her forehead to shade her eyes so she could see.  Bird sat on the skid. 

He yelled, “Get in the basket.”

            Sensible questions and courses of action fought to be heard, but the painfully loud whomp-whomp of the helicopter’s blades addled Sheila’s thoughts.  She pulled herself out of the pool, wrapped herself in the beach towel, and climbed into the basket.  The moment she was on board, so to speak, the helicopter rose and tilted away.  In an instant, the lighted pool and the cottage took on the toy like qualities of a doll house.  She held on to the basket and should have sat back for safety.  Instead she leaned forward a bit and looked down.  Below her dangling feet, the lights of Corona del Mar and Pacific Coast highway slid by.  In places where the beach was illuminated, she saw the white foam of waves breaking against the shore.  Then a sudden thrust nearly threw her out of the basket.  She sat back.  The basket whirled in a great arc, as if it were an amusement park ride, and then shot upward and forward at a frightening speed.  She held on for dear life.  The amusement had gone out of the ride.

                                

Chapter seven-2

They sped along at a frightening speed.  Sheila looked up.  Bird now was inside  the helicopter.  She was being hauled up.  When she was at his level, he grabbed the side of the basket and pulled it close to the door.

“Get in,” he said.

The helicopter shook from the motion of the blades and bounced as if it was speeding along a rutted, dirt road.  She pushed the towel from her shoulders.  Freezing cold air whipped around her.  The wet ends of her hair pelted her cheeks.  She braced her feet against the skid.  Bird gripped a bar at the edge of the door and extended his other hand to her.  She grabbed it, pulled herself up onto the skid, and stepped into the passenger compartment.  It was very spartan.  Two bench seats faced each other.  Bird sat down on one.  She sat opposite him, shivering. 

He reached over the seat into the pilot’s compartment and said, “Alex, my friend needs to borrow your jacket.”  He flung a coat, obviously government issue, at her. 

She wrapped up in it.  Maybe the helicopter and Alex had come from Camp Pendleton Marine Base.  He must be Alex’s supplier. 

“I assume you have the drugs,” she said.

He pointed to the space under her seat.  She reached down, found one of its straps, and pulled it up onto the seat beside her.  “And my clothes?”

“Too trendy.”

She hated his superior attitude and dismissive grunts that served as communication.  “I don’t supposed you turned off the lights and locked the door.”

“I took care of that, ma’am,” Alex said.  “House keys are in the front zipper compartment of your bag.”  That morsel of respect and common sense made her feel better.  She could see how a captive could develop Stockholm Syndrome.         

The helicopter dipped and turned and in a smooth movement landed in a parking lot behind an old strip mall.  The back door of one of the shops was open.  Dim light streamed from it casting a burly figure into silhouette.  Bird said, “Let’s go shopping.”

They entered an Army Navy Surplus Store.  It smelled like an old canvas tent.   Survival gear filled every nook and cranny.  Green and brown camouflage clothes stood in piles on shelves and hung on racks.  None of them looked trendy. 

“The usual, Keith,” Bird said to the burly kid.  “Plus some clothes for her.” 

Keith eyed her and said, “Cadet size ought to fit.”  He motioned for her to follow him.  He was about six feet tall, rotund, and had blond, curly hair held down by a bandana in a stars and stripes print.  He pulled green camouflage tee shirt, pants, socks, and a man’s dress type shirt from piles and handed them to her.  “You can change over there.”  He pointed to an area behind part of a parachute thrown over a rope attached to the wall and a wooden vertical beam.   

You can change rang in her head.  She remembered when William had gone into the army.  The first thing they did was take away his clothes, give him a uniform, and cut his hair.  Then they taught him how to think and act like a soldier.  She’d put on the clothes because she didn’t have any other, but she wasn’t going to be converted into a “lean, mean, killing machine.”  She just wanted to deliver the drugs, make sure Tom was okay, and come back to resume her life, a messed up as it was at the moment.  When she was dressed, she found Bird and Keith standing on either side of a glass case.  It held an array of pistols and knives.  Behind it stood a locked rack of rifles, some of which looked as if they could stop a tank. 

“You ever fire a weapon?” Bird asked.

“No.” she said. 

“Better just give her a knife,” Bird said.  “Her hand’s small.” 

Keith brought out one with a leather grip and a single edge blade, “Try this.”

She picked up the knife.  Her reaction surprised her.  It fit neatly into her hand and was well balanced.  Holding it gave her what could only be described as a testosterone rush.  Easy girl, she thought.  Do not get sucked into Bird’s world. 

 

                                      

Chapter Seven-3

     “Sharp edge of the blade down,” Bird said as he stepped behind her.  His breath was hot and stank of whiskey.  A wild impulse to turn and kiss him swept over her, as if she could draw from his lips the essence of the alcohol and thereby quiet her quaking nerves.  He slipped his left arm around her waist.  His grip rough and powerful.  He slid his right hand down her arm and used it to turn the knife to its correct position.  Then he put his right hand over hers and squeezed, “Hold the knife tight so it doesn’t wobble when it meets resistance.”

            He took two steps back from the counter, taking her with him.  They stood in a small open area between the racks of stinking clothes, her body held tightly against his.  He whispered, “You gotta be fully committed to the act, which shouldn’t be a problem if you’re close enough to a guy to even think of using a knife.”  His hot breath fluttered wisps of her hair.  He began to sway, moving her with him.  “As small as you are, you better be face to face with the guy.  Go for the gut.  Act fast.  Hit hard.  Don’t try to pull out the knife.  Let him do that.  It’ll keep the bastard busy while you get away.”

            He laughed and continued, “Keep your elbow close to your body and your hand against your side until you’re ready to thrust.  Step forward with your left foot, turn, and thrust at the same time.  The thrust is the least of the movements, delivered as you turn, so your weight will be behind it.  Ready?”  He eased her one step forward and turned, guiding her as if they were dirty dancing.  “Step, turn, thrust hard.”  They did it again and again with Bird repeating step, turn, thrust hard each time. 

            Keith, so massive and his unkempt hair making him look even bigger, beat a rhythm on the top of the glass case and counted off like a dancer rehearsing for a stage play, “Five, six, seven, eight…step, turn, thrust hard.”

            Sheila and Bird whirled around the floor.  She repeated the words as they moved and felt, when she did it right that her weight would drive the knife home.  In the step and turn part they were almost graceful, but the thrust hard part always came out a crude movement, a reminder of the unimaginable ugliness of what she might have to do to protect herself.  The thought sickened her.  But she forced herself to visualize driving the knife into someone’s gut.  AS they moved step, turn, thrust hard, she realized that she had reached out to the devil.  Whatever the consequences in this life or the next, she had no choice but to follow his lead.             

            

Chapter Eight

            The helicopter lifted off and rose, turned, and flew forward in one smooth move.  Sheila sat close to the door and watched landmarks slide by. 

South

Coast

Plaza

, at the juncture of the 405 and the 55, glowed brightly, but the parking lot was nearly empty.  It was probably close to

ten o’clock

.  She remembered, with regret, the trendy, water proof, back lighted, wristwatch she’d bought at the outdoor shop there.  They flew over tens of thousands of houses crammed together with lighted streets in grids.  There were a few parks and strip malls.  The runways of the abandoned El Toro Marine Base made a big X in the landscape.  Then nothing but dark hills. 

She forced herself to concentrate.  The helicopter climbed.  Two toll roads passed under them.  Up over some higher peaks and then down.  Another freeway, probably the fifteen appeared.  They changed direction and flew above the highway until they came to the crush of houses and shopping centers of Temecula.  She leaned forward and picked out Dos Hombres and its fountain.  They turned eastward above one road that lead away from the populated area.  She saw the unique buildings of the vineyards that were one of the main attractions of the area.  They followed the road, but nothing else was familiar.  They landed at a very small, dimly lit airfield.

“Let’s go,” Bird said.  He patted the pilot on the shoulder, “Thanks, Alex.  You’ll find a little something for your trouble waiting for you in the usual place.”

Sheila grabbed the backpack and jumped down onto the tarmac.  The helicopter took off immediately, whipping up hot, dray air and plenty of dust.  She turned her back on it and covered her ears.  Two figures emerged from the small, dimly lit building that stood next to the airstrip.  A large, very bright, neon sign on top said EAT.   

“Plane’s ready,” the man said.  He wore a dark coverall.

“I’m ready, too,” the woman said.  She looked like a Latino version of Marilyn Monroe.  She wore a coverall that could have been designed by Bob Mackie.  It was hot pink and decorated with silver chains and sequins at the collar.  Large rhinestone buttons ran down the front placket leading eyes right to her crotch.  Most of them were undone, exposing her unnaturally large breasts and very flat abdomen.  No sign of bra or panties.  She kissed Bird for a long moment with plenty of mouth play going on.  When she stopped, she said, “Guess I’ll have to wait.”

“I won’t be gone long, Corrina,” Bird said, “So keep your engine running.”  He slipped his hand between her legs. 

Sheila turned away.  Sheila hated this Corrina.  And then realized how stupid that was.  Bird was the one to hate.  Bringing drugs into the country and doing God only knew what to move it from

Colombia

to here.  Add to that all of the problems that drugs caused.  He really was scum. 

“Better get going, Pajaro,” the other man said.  “Vilar’s screaming mad you didn’t show up last week.  Cocaine production’s down to zero.”  

“The GPS and transmitter are inside one of the barrels?”

“Si.  DEA put them in plastic not affected by the ether.” 

“Drug Enforcement?” Sheila said.  “I thought-“

Bird smiled, “I like to double up or, in this case triple up, on runs.” 

That explained the marine helicopter.  But this Vilar person, obviously a manufacturer of cocaine, would be majorly pissed if he discovered the GPS/transmitter in the barrels of ether.   Too late to turn back.  Truth be told, she wouldn’t even if she could.  Not with Tom’s life hanging in the balance. 

“Can we go now?” she said. 

Chapter eight - 2

            A medium sized airplane, the kind she thought of as a private jet, sat at the end of a field facing a worn stretch in the grass that was a good deal shorter than the runway at John Wayne Airport.  Sheila climbed in.  Any amenities that had been built into the plane had been stripped away to make room for cargo.  She walked between two black, industrial sized barrels that bore labels that said, “Ether.  Federal Drug Administration Controlled Substance followed by a lot of small print and numbers with bar codes under them.  She settled into the passenger side seat. 

            Bird, a.k.a. Pajaro, settled into the pilot’s seat.  He said, “Buckle up,”

            He started the engine.  The two propellers whirled to life.  He pushed forward on the handles that controlled their speed and pressed so hard on the break peddle that he came up off his seat.  The plane strained to go forward.  Bird increased the propeller speed.  The engines screamed to be set free.  He yelled, “Hang on!”

            They exploded forward as if they’d been shot from one of those guns on a battle ship that can throw a Cadillac at an on shore target twenty-five miles away.  The take off area of the field, although it looked fairly smooth by the light of the full moon, was pretty rough for the purpose of taxing an airplane.  She grabbed the upper portion of her seatbelt and held onto it with both hands.  They bumped and bounced wildly for a moment and they everything turned smooth.  Bird kept the plane very low and guided it through a sharp turn.  She saw the yellow EAT sign and wondered if she’d ever see it again. 

            At the last possible moment to do so, they low hopped over a range of mountains.  “Shouldn’t we be flying a little higher?” she asked.

            “Gotta stay under the radar,” he said.

            “But if you’re working with the DEA-“

            “They’re not the only ones with radar.”

            They flew along in silence.  Sheila looked down for landmarks or a town, but only the occasional dim light slid by.  Then she realized that, of course, Bird was avoiding populated places.  She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes and said, “Are we there yet?”

            Bird laughed, “Nice to see you have a sense of humor.”

            “Actually I don’t, not about this.  I just want to know how long it will take us to get there. “

            “About ten hours.  Barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

            “Such as bad weather?”

            “Give me a little credit.  I check the weather reports.  The DEA likes to scramble their own jets if they pick up small planes that haven’t filed a flight plan.”

            “I assume you didn’t file one of those.”

            “No.”

            “But you’re working for the DEA, aren’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then why would they scramble their planes after you?”

            “You tell anyone you’ve hired a drug runner?”

            “Point taken,” she said.

            He stared straight ahead into the darkness, but Sheila felt he was studying her.  Maybe he had invisible bird eyes in the sides of his head.  After a few moments, he said, “So what’s your story?”

            “My story is that my brother is dying.  I need you to help me get medicine to him.”

            “I know that.”

            “Okay.  Here’s another story.  About ten years ago, my neighbor came home from grocery shopping and opened the garage door.  Inside, her twenty year old son hung from the rafters.”  A policeman had told Sheila about it when he came over to ask if she would sit with her neighbor until the boy’s father could get there.  Sheila had leaned against the wall just inside the front door.  Her knees had gone weak and she started sliding toward the floor.  The policeman had stepped in and grabbed her and stood her up.  He insisted she sit on the sofa a few minutes before going to her neighbor’s.      

            Bird said, “And that was my fault?”

            “You had a part in it.”

            “Look, if I don’t do this somebody-“

            “That’s a bullshit cop out.”

            “I don’t know what planet you’ve been living on, but you don’t know shit about this one.”

            “Then we’re in agreement?”

            “About what?”

            “We don’t like each other.” 

            Bird laughed, “The last person I liked was my dog Manitou.”

               

                                                

Chapter eight-3

            The night was dark, but clear.  Most of the time, the only light inside the plane was the dim glow from the instrument panel.  Through the front and side windows millions and millions of points of light filled the sky.  Sheila traced the line of the Milky Way.  Its stars burned at temperatures too hot for her to fathom, but they were too far away to cast significant light or warmth on the land below.  She felt very small and alone.  She thought of all of the people who had lived and died and of those who had made fabulous contributions to the good of mankind and of those who had committed horrible atrocities.  Flying through the darkest night that she’d ever known, none of it seemed to matter.  Worst of all was the feeling that her task, supremely difficult as it might turn to out to be, and whether it ended successfully or not, meant nothing in the grand scheme of the universe.                 

            Sheila rested her head against the window frame.  She and Bird didn’t speak.  Drifting in and out of sleep, she thought of the things she imagined everyone flying into the unknown thought about.  Home.  She regretted that the tiny cottage, which suited her so perfectly, would be hers no more.  Nicholas.  She regretted treating him so poorly and not loving him more.  Richard, The Big Dick, she regretted no getting to see him to pick up her statement and check, especially because he probably thought he’d scared her off with his tough stance.  Tom.  Don’t die.  Don’t die.  Don’t die. 

            Born, not with the gift of faith, but with unflagging optimism, she turned her thoughts to the near future.  William had been a dour sort.  She had often encouraged him to paint pictures of the future in bright colors.  Nothing was worse than finding herself in the position of having to take her own advice.  She imagined a condo near the beach that she could actually afford.  She imagined Nicholas forgiving her for disappearing again and treating her to a homecoming dinner without making a proposal she didn’t want to accept or turn down.  She imagined Richard putting the statement and a certified check into an account he’d opened for her at her bank.  When cows fly.  She imagined Tom healthy and busy looking after his flock in Mateo.  She’d give up all the rest for that. 

            Perhaps they’d flown through one of those time/space worms because suddenly it was daylight.  The face of a huge mountain loomed in front of them.  She grabbed her seat belt with both hands and braced her feet against the floor.  “Pull up!” she screamed.

            Bird did just that.  The engines strained mightily.  Sheila wondered if they could take in enough air to burn fuel at this elevation.  She inhaled deeply as if that would help.  She didn’t exhale until they had cleared the top of the mountain and were on a wild dive down the other side.

            “You snore,” Bird said.

            “I do not,” she said and then she screamed, “We’re going to crash!”

            “It’s a dainty snore,” Bird said seemingly oblivious to the ground rushing up toward them.  The plane banked and turned and leveled off frighteningly close to the tops of the trees.  “You can relax.  They call me El Pajaro because I fly like a bird.” 

            “Why fly so low?”

            “Suppose someone on the ground wants to take me down.  The lower I fly the faster I move relative to his position.  Throws off his aim.”  After a moment he added, “Gonna land now.  Hold on.  Brace yourself.  No screaming.”

            Sheila did as he said, pressing her lips together tightly to keep silent.  The last thing she wanted to do was distract him as he guided the plane toward a mere grassy swath in the forest.  They touched down fairly gently, but immediately bounced and tipped this way and that over the rough terrain.  Branches of trees that hadn’t been felled to make the very narrow landing place slapped loudly against the windshield and sides of the plane.  She feared one or more might crash through.  Pajaro did things with the controls and once again stood on the break peddles to stop their forward motion.  The whole process was incredibly noisy.  Finally they banged into something and jerked to a halt.  A troop of uniformed, armed men emerged from the trees.  Leading them was a large man in civilian clothes. 

Pajaro stood up and said, “After you.”

Sheila put on the backpack and walked to the back door, which stood opened with the steps down.  She stood inside the plane for a moment.  Outside, it was hotter than hell.  The humidity had to be over one hundred percent, if that was possible.  Tiny droplets of perspiration formed at her hairline.  The air was laden with many smells; foremost among them was that of a massive herb garden growing on rotting vegetation.  Just like in the movies, birds and wild animals called to each other. 

Pajor nudged her forward, “Not nice to keep his majesty waiting.”

She made her exit with Pajaro right behind her.  When they had stepped won, he swept her up in his arms and kissed her.  There was plenty of head and hand movement and guttural sounds on his part, but he in no way opened his lips or attempted to put his tongue in her mouth.  “I told you this was a beautiful place,” he said.  He stepped forward a few paces and stood with his legs spread and his arms out, obviously so one of the men could pat him down.  “You, too,” he said over his shoulder to her.              

              Sheila hated the idea of rude hands touching her, but she complied.  Oh for the much maligned metal detectors in airports.  She prepared herself for the worst.

            “I will handle this,” the man in civilian clothes said.  He came and stood in front of her, but not so close to intimidate, although she was sure he’d used his size to frighten people many times.  “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

Sheila, wondering if it was an insult to look him directly in the eyes or an insult not to, decided to risk looking at him and told him her name. 

“You can call me Vilar.  I’ll ask a question.  You will answer truthfully.  Comprende?”

            She said, “Yes.”  He did not respond.  She tried, “Si, Vilar.”

            “Excellent.  Do you carry a weapon?”

            Play the game, she thought.  She said, “Si, Vilar.  I have a knife to protect myself from…from…wild animals.”

            “No wild animals in my compound, but you may keep it.  What is so important that you carry it on your back?”

            “Personal items.  Things a woman needs.”

            He reached for the backpack.  If he saw the medicine, he’d probably take it from her and the whole trip would be a waste.

            She looked him right in the eyes, “I also have some drugs.”

            Vilar laughed, “This is Colombia.  Who doesn’t?”  He stepped back, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take your fun away.”

             

                   

                                   

Chapter eight - 4

Vilar led the way to his home away from home, as he’d called it.  Pajaro walked beside him and they conversed in Spanish.  Sheila followed next.  Once in a while, she understood a cognate or a word or phrase for which there wasn’t a Spanish equivalent.  She and Nicholas sometimes hiked up at Lake

Arrowhead.  The altitude didn’t give her much of a problem.  They must have been a lot higher because she soon became short of   breath.  She was determined to hide the problem because she didn’t want to admit to Pajaro that she had a weakness. Half a dozen armed men came along behind her.  The knife Pajaro had showed her how to use was in an outside utility pocked of her faigues.           

     Beyond the landing strip, the rain forest had only been partially cleared.  Long, narrow huts were squeezed in between the trees.  They had metal, corrugated roofs covered with a thick layer of greens, which Sheila supposed prevented the slightest flash of reflected sunlight from shooting up through the canopy and giving their location away.  Thick posts supported the roofs, but there weren’t any walls.  Large, black barrels stood next to vats and tables.  One table bore several scales and stacks of plastic bags that looked as if they’d hold about a kilo of cocaine. 

Sheila thought of Carl back in the mail room of Beckman Pharmaceuticals shipping cocaine with impunity.  She wondered if there was some way she could blow the whistle on him without putting herself in danger.  Then she was struck with the realization that Pajaro probably would load his plane with drugs for the flight back to Orange County .  She hadn’t thought of that possibility.  She had been so focused on getting into Colombia that she hadn’t thought beyond that.  And she was the one who always laughed at the “world’s dumbest criminal” segments on TV shows.  If she was in the plane and Pajaro was caught smuggling cocaine, no one would believe that she was innocent. 

With horror, she realized that she could no longer think of herself as innocent.  It seemed obvious that the money she’d given Pajaro up front had funded this trip.  Sadly, she had to acknowledge to herself that she would be partially responsible for whatever evil emanated from the use of the return trip shipment of cocaine. At least she took responsibility for her part.  Pajaro seemed to think anything that happened after the exchange of drugs for money had nothing to do with him.  Compared to Pajaro, she tried to convince herself, she was only a little bit bad.  Then she laughed at herself for being such a fool.  Being a little bit bad was as impossible as being a little bit pregnant.  She either was or she wasn’t.  She didn’t need to pee on a plastic stick to know the answer.                                     

Chapter nine

“Dinner is on the way,” Vilar said. “I ordered from that place in Cali that you seemed to like.  Of course, I didn’t know you were bringing a guest, but I’m sure there will be enough.” 

            They followed a short path through the trees that led to several camouflage tents.  The largest held an array of high tech equipment.  Most of it had monitors with sweeping lines going around dials or changing spiky graphs.  All flights and radio communications in the area were being tracked.  A lap top sat on a small table.  No printer.  This was truly a paperless office, perfect for a quick getaway that wouldn’t leave behind important information.  Two chairs, of the fold up patio type, faced the table.  Very business like.  In the back corner of the tent, stood a neatly made up cot and a wash stand.

            “I assume you’ll want to sleep after dinner.”  He held open the door flap of another, smaller tent.  It held two cots and a wash stand.  Vilar turned to Sheila, “If you need anything more than what you have in your bag, please ask.  I can get anything in a matter of hours.” 

            Sheila’s stomach hurt and she wanted to ask for a Cold Stone sundae and a life time supply of medicines for Mateo, but she said, “I’d like to wash my face and hands before dinner.”

            Pajaro hugged her and said, “We’re going to do more than that before the food arrives.”

            “Ah, yes,” Vilar said, “We’ll eat at your convenience.  I’ll be in my office.”

            Pajaro led Sheila into the tent and zipped the door closed.  Sheila started to protest, but he stepped over to her and put his hand over her mouth.  He put his index finger over his lips to indicate that she shouldn’t say anything.  She nodded and he took away his hand.  He searched the tent and found three small mini cameras and microphones.  He cut the line to the first.  A loud guffaw came from the tent next to theirs.  Pajaro disabled the other two.  Then he pointed to the door which bore the shadows of two men holding automatic weapons.  He came to Sheila and kissed her loudly on the shoulder, backing way to give her a piercing look.

            She understood that he wanted her to join in the charade.  “Oh, Pajaro,” she sighed loudly.

            He gave her an incredulous look and shrugged.  He kissed her shoulder some more, rolling his hand in a circle to indicate that she should make more noise.  While she was saying, “Hmmmmm,” he took out his knife.

            He said something in Spanish that she didn’t understand, but she assumed it translated into some kind of pillow talk having to do with getting on with having sex.  She said, “Yes.  Yes.  Oh yes!” 

            As she was saying that, he used his knife to cut a long slit in the tent, which he held open for her to go through.  He stepped out after her, took her hand, and whispered, “They’ll detect the transmission from the GPS and Vilar’ll give the order to kill us.  Gotta go fast and far.  Ready?”

            Sheila nodded.                       

            As they trotted through the forest at a quick pace, Pajaro said, “He won’t call off his dogs until we’re dead.”

            Loud cries rose from the camp and indeed the sound of yelping dogs.               

Chapter nine-2

            Pajaro quickly stepped across the cut around the tents and plunged into the surrounding forest.  Sheila hurried to catch up to his receding back.  The trees were widely spaced.  The bushes around then were surprisingly pliant.  But the undergrowth and roots on the forest floor threatened to trip her.  Her first true senior moment was a fall apparently caused by not lifting her left foot high enough to clear a step.  She had literally landed on her face and ended up with a black eye.  She couldn’t afford a mishap like that.  If she fell and hurt herself, Pajaro would probably leave her.  Well maybe not since she still owed him a very large sum of money.     

            They walked in single file.  Sheila kept her eyes on the ground for low lying danger.  The backs of Pajaro’s boots flicked at the top of her peripheral vision. Almost immediately she felt short of breath and her legs felt heavy, as they used to upon climbing flights of stairs or walking up a steep grade.  The personal trainer she’d hired last year had explained that regular exercise would keep the problem at bay.  She considered the eighty-five dollars an hour well spent when she was able to breath easy and keep up with Nicholas on their hikes.  But the moment she skipped a few sessions of swimming in the jet pool and doing water aerobics, the problem came back.  Now she had no choice except to bear down and power through, as her trainer used to say. 

            “Is Mateo very far?” she said, trying not to wheeze.

            “You’re making too much noise,” Pajaro said.

            Not too far behind them, she heard the bay of the hounds.  “They won’t be able to hear us over the dogs,” she said.

            “Vilar’s men might not be the only ones around.”

            “Great.  So we can be killed at any time.”

“No one’s going to kill us out here.  They’d have to carry our bodies back to collect the reward.” 

“That’s comforting,” she said.  And in a really weird way, it was.  As long as they were alive there was hope.  Nevertheless, she tried not to make so much noise.   

            “You’re moving too slow,” Pajaro said.

            Sheila stopped and said, “I can do quiet.  I can do fast.  But I can’t do them at the same time.  I prefer slow and quiet.”

            “Okay,” Pajaro said.  “It’s your three hundred and fifty thousand.  Just remember if we get into a scrape, you’re on your own.”

He couldn’t possibly mean that.  A branch came at her.  She slapped it away.       A misstep almost sent her tumbling.  Something – a bird or an animal or a person – thrashed in the bush beside the trail.

“Ignore that,” Pajaro said.

But she had recoiled and nearly fell again.  She clamped her lips tightly together.  She would be damned before she’d complain to Pajaro.  The last thing she’d done that was this hard was deliver her babies.  It was the seventies and bearing children without the benefit of pain medication was in vogue.  She and William had taken La Maze classes.  Much to her surprise, it had worked.  The dark smudge on the back of Pajaro’s left boot would be her focal point.  She could almost hear Sweet William’s voice close to her ear, as it had been then, saying concentrate on your breathing and everything will be okay.  The memory of that had gotten her through plenty of tough times after he’d died.  It would get her through this. 

She trudged on with sharp points on branches tearing at her clothes.  She lost track of everything except the smudge on Pajaro’s boot and the rasp of her breathing, which was oddly comforting.  Her mind wanted to roam over all of the problems brewing back home, but she couldn’t afford to indulge in the least bit of negativity.  So she thought about Tom, allowing herself only one thought.  She imagined him getting well after Doctor Neill had given him the tetracycline and having a wonderful, long talk with him as she sat on the side of his cot.  Then she bumped into Pajaro. 

“Oops.  Sorry,” she said as she looked up.

“They’re gaining on us,” he said.  “We need to find a place to hide.”

“What if they find us?”

“I’ll deal with them.”

He looked around, selected a stand of bushes, and crawled slowly into it.  He thrashed around.  Dust rose and some rotting foliage flew out.  Metal scraped against rock.  He said, “Son-of-a-bitch!”  He came out carrying a stick with two snakes coiled on it.

Sheila said, “Oh shit!” and took a step backward.  “Are they poisonous?”

“Colombians call them Senior Three Steps because, if they strike you, their poison will kill you before you can take three steps.”

“Kill ‘em,” she hissed.

“Get the shelter half from my pack.”

Sheila pulled out the large piece camouflage silk that had once been a parachute and handed it to Pajaro, staying as far away from the stick and snakes as possible.  Then she backed away.  Pajaro carefully draped the cloth over the stick and then in a lightening fast move pulled the hanging ends together.  He dropped the stick and tied the ends to trap the snakes.  When he picked up the stick again, it looked like a hobo’s bundle.  Except this one writhed.                     

He placed the snakes in an open area and loosened the knots.  The howling of the dogs had grown louder and individual voices could be heard.  Sheila followed Pajaro as he hurried back to the bush.  He pointed to an opening in the growth, “Get in.”

Sheila didn’t move.

“Come on.  It’s safe now.”

“You’re sure?”

“Safer than out here.”

The men hunting them were only a short distance away.  If she didn’t move right then, they’d be seen.  She ducked and crawled in.  Pajaro pushed in behind her. 

The hounds led the men to the old piece of parachute and went crazy.  Much to Sheila’s surprise there were only three men and two dogs.  One of them strained at its leash in the direction where Pajaro and Sheila crouched.  Pajaro had taken out his gun and was tightening down a silencer.  She braced herself for the moment when he might have to shoot the dog or, for that matter, the men.  One of the men handed his dog’s leash to the other with a dog and signaled for him to take them back the way they’d come.  He led them a short distance and then settled them down a signal.  The two men standing over the bundle reached for the corners of the cloth and opened it.  Both cried out and gripped their wrists and started to run. 

“One, two, three,” Pajaro whispered.

Both men fell, convulsed, and then were perfectly still.  Then man holding the dogs called out, “Gilberto?  Carlos?”  He took one step toward the fallen men.  “Gilberto?  Carlos?”  He took one step toward the shelter half and saw the snakes.  He dropped the leashes and ran away screaming, “Gilberto es muerto!  Carlos es muerto!  Chinga!  Mordedura de serpiente!”

   

         

     

             

                         

              

Chapter nine-3

          Sheila felt as if she were on a boat wildly pitching in extremely rough seas.  Her insides heaved.  The world seemed to swirl around her.  She held onto a thick stalk of the bush to keep from toppling over.  Pajaro had murdered two men right in front of her eyes.  Nothing she had ever seen on TV or in the movies could have prepared her for the reality of murder.  She sat in absolutely stunned silence.   

The lifeless bodies lay in the sun drenched opening.  She forced herself to look at them.  Much to her surprise, there was something almost peaceful and holy about them.  She wondered if they’d been Catholic and if they’d been baptized and taken communion.  “How long has it been since your last confession?”  If they had spirits, their spirits had moved on to another world, where they may or may not have met their maker.  Perhaps they’d entered that world as naked as they’d entered this one, their bodies left behind and the good or evil they’d done in this one washed away by Christ’s sacrifice.  It didn’t seem right to Sheila that the two dead men and Vilar and even Pajaro should be given a ticket to ride.                    

“You look like hell,” Pajaro said.  “Let’s move out.  We’ll make camp and eat as soon as I can find a good spot.” 

He checked the shelter half to make sure the snakes were gone and put it into his pack.  Not long after they started off, voices came from behind them.  They sat down carefully and watched the men wrap the bodies and shoulder them for the trek back to Vilar’s camp.  When they were gone, the forest became deeply quiet, as it had been for millions of years.  Again Sheila was struck with how puny and meaningless human lives were in the scheme of things.      

“This is as good a place as any,” Pajaro said. 

They made camp inside another huge, thick bush that was hollowed out inside where lack of sunlight had caused inner branches to die back.

“Better not risk a fire,” he said.

They ate military rations. 

“The spaghetti isn’t bad cold.” 

He tore open a vacuum pack, poured a little water from his canteen into it, and handed it to her.  She pulled the plastic fork from the side and ate.  He made the same for himself.  They ate in silence.  Then he took the nearly empty pouch from her and handed her two others.

“What’s this?” she said.

“My favorite dessert.  Peaches in heavy syrup and crackers.”

She sat up and said, “My husband at peaches and crackers when he was in Vietnam.” 

“No shit,” Pajaro said, “When was your husband in country?”

All of the old language from their war years came flooding back.  “He was in Nam end of sixty-eight and part of sixty-nine.” 

“So we were both there for TET.  Nasty business.  What was his MOS?”

“LRRP.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.  I was a LRRP.”

“Were you at Cu-Chi?”

“Further north.  I spent a lot of time in Cambodia.”

“William worked the Ho Chi Minh Trail and the Saigon River.”

“The whole place was fucked up.  So was the whole fucking war.”

“I guess that’s why a lot of guys did drugs.”

“Not me.  Too dangerous.  What with Charlie out to get me and all.  Started after I came home.  Civilian life was more fucked up than Nam and the war rolled in one.”

“William had a hard time when he came back, too.”

“You stick with him?”

“’Til the day he died.”

“You deserve a fucking Medal of Honor.”

Sheila took a spoonful of the peaches and a bite of cracker.  Smooth and crunchy mixed with sweet and salty.  It couldn’t have tasted any better if it had been prepared by a  five star chef.  As she ate, she wondered what was going on back in the world.  After a few moments, her thoughts were interrupted by a thrashing sound rushing toward them.  The big, brown and black head of a bloodhound poked into their camp.  Folds of skin drooped over sad eyes.  Its nose twitched, taking in everything.   

“Must have smelled the food.”  Pajaro opened his canteen and gave the dog some water.  Then he let him eat the rest of his peaches and crackers.  He followed that with another drink.  The dog circled around a couple of times and settled against Pajaro’s side.

“Looks like you’ve got a friend.”

He laughed as he petted the bloodhound and said, “If women were more like dogs, one of my marriages probably would have survived.”  After a moment he added, “I didn’t mean that you…fuck…no wonder I couldn’t keep a woman.”           

“So what’s the plan?” Sheila said.

“Rest until nightfall and then move out.  We should be in Mateo by morning.”   

   

   

 

Chapter nine-4

            While they rested inside their hiding place, Sheila was amazed by the amount of “traffic” that passed through the area.  In all cases, the men, and the few women with them, had no idea that she and Pajaro observed them.  But they moved quietly and on full alert with what ever kinds of weapons they carried at the ready.  If she’d needed further convincing that the area within the tri-angle that Pajaro had drawn on his palm was extremely dangerous, that would be it. 

Sheila shook her head slightly at how ignorant she was sitting in that booth just the day before, or perhaps it was two days ago.  In the rain forest within that tri-angle, time and all the elements that ruled the world, as William used to call it, seemed curved, as if controlled by some evil version of e=mc².   Herman Melville had written of it in Pierre and the Ambiguities, having the title character think that it was foolish to live by New England clocks when in China.  The idea was now known as moral relativism.  As a student, hard edged and safe in the womb of the University of Michigan, she’d rejected the idea put forth by Melville.  Her life with William had been such that the question had never arisen.  Now she sat wrapped in her piece of camouflage parachute and held a knife, not knowing what she would do if they were discovered. 

Pajaro held his knife, prepared to do whatever was necessary to survive – including using the Uzi, which lay close at hand.  His eyes had the look of a wild animal.  He was on full alert and ready to react without much participation of the higher brain.  His training and experience as a LRRP had given him that.

She has seen that look in William’s eyes once when they were having a fight over some issue involving one of their kids.  He’d charged her in full attack mode.  She’d screamed and peed her pants, but managed to get through to him.  After he’d calmed down, he’d apologized profusely.  She’d feared he’d become abusive and told him that if he ever did that again, he’d never see her or their kids as long as he lived.  She must have had an equally wild look in her eye because he never came after her in the same way.   But the wildness in him was always there.  Just below the surface.  Ready to show itself in the right circumstances.  Sheila had to admit that it gave her comfort in the face of new and ever growing incidents of home invasions.  What she had to presume was her wildness came out once more.  One afternoon, without time to think, she drove an intruder from their home with only her expression and voice as weapons to protect the kids.  Now she wondered if she’d act without thinking to protect herself.  Step, turn, thrust, hard.              

The first group arrived shortly after the incident with the snakes.