Running from the Devil Read online

  “You like the heat?” Banner said.

  She nodded. “I love it. I grew up in Iowa, and this kind of weather came only in August. I lived for August.”

  The sun warmed Banner’s shoulder, and he realized it hadn’t pained him once since his arrival in Miami. Darkview’s offices were in Arlington, Virginia, close to the powers that be in the military. Arlington was home, but Miami had a certain flair.

  “We could open a satellite office here,” Banner said.

  Stromeyer laughed. “I’d love the weather, but I don’t know if I could stand the vibe. It feels like a banana republic, all glitter and too laid-back for type As like me.”

  Banner grinned. “Maybe they’ve got it right and the poor working stiffs like us have it wrong.”

  Stromeyer smiled at him. “I love my work.”

  The Southern Command building was new and, to Banner’s mind, much more inviting than most army headquarters. Waving palm trees and ample parking surrounded the two-story building. Built less than ten years ago, the facility boasted state-of-the-art technology, and its location near Miami International Airport made commuting convenient. One thousand people worked there. Banner thought the pink exterior color a little strange and whimsical for a building with such a serious purpose, but it tended to blend with the other construction in the area.

  They passed through security in silence. Stromeyer’s mood darkened the minute she stepped out of the sunlight.

  She said, apropos of nothing, “I hate talking to the relatives. I hope Miguel rescues the hostages soon. This situation is breaking my heart.”

  They stepped into the main conference room. Whitter, two aides, and another man sat there. Whitter introduced the others as embassy personnel. He waved at the flat-screen television that showed a man in a suit sitting at a table. The man sipped from a coffee cup and looked at them as if he could see them.

  “We’re on closed-circuit television,” Whitter said. He clicked on the speaker phone.

  “Mr. Montoya, can you see us?”

  Montoya nodded. “I can, Mr. Whitter.”

  “Good. Then perhaps you tell us how the Colombian government views this situation.”

  Mr. Montoya shook his head sadly. “I am afraid they are as puzzled as the rest of us. They believe that the disarmament program with the guerrillas is progressing well. They do not view this situation as a result of a hostile act against Americans. In twenty minutes the Colombian president is going to give a press conference in which he will tell the world that the plane was not hijacked.” Banner and Stromeyer looked at each other, stunned. Whitter closed his eyes.

  Banner recovered first. “If the plane wasn’t hijacked, then what accounts for the text message we received from one of the passengers that said army men were taking hostages?”

  Montoya gave a small sigh. “Major Banner, the last plane that was downed in the Colombian jungle landed there due to an equipment malfunction. Five American bank executives survived. They were taken hostage by some guerrillas in the area shortly after the crash. It was not a planned kidnapping, merely a crime of opportunity. The men landed in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “When was this?” Banner said.

  “Three years ago.”

  “Where are they now?” Banner prepared to note their names.

  “They are still hostages.”

  Banner sat forward. “No one’s gotten them out? Have you gone there?”

  Montoya shook his head. “Absolutely not! Major Banner, I don’t think you understand the extent of the problem here. Embassy personnel are forbidden to travel to these areas. For our own safety we are not allowed to use the roads or public transportation. We fly over these areas, if we go there at all.”

  “But these men are American citizens. Surely the embassy could assist in negotiations, or search and rescue,” Stromeyer said. Banner knew her well enough to hear the underlying layer of anger in her voice.

  “Ms. Stromeyer—”

  “It’s Major Stromeyer,” Whitter said. Banner did his best to hide his surprise at Whitter’s correction. Stromeyer raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “I apologize,” Mr. Montoya continued. “Major Stromeyer, the embassy has a strict policy of noninterference. We have no jurisdiction. We tell all Americans that they assume the risk when they come here, and if something happens they must appeal to the Colombian government and to the Colombian forces in charge of kidnap rescue.”

  “How is their success rate?” Stromeyer said.

  “Good, but this is a big job and the hostages are deep in the jungle.”

  Whitter and Banner exchanged glances. For a brief moment, Banner saw a flicker of pain in Whitter’s eyes.

  “Did you know the bank executives?” Banner said.

  Whitter gave a curt nod. “One. He was an acquaintance. His family lives in D.C. My wife sees them occasionally.” He turned to the image of Mr. Montoya. “Mr. Montoya, what do you think is behind this extraordinary decision? Is the Colombian president aware that the American government believes the plane was hijacked in a manner consistent with terrorist action?”

  Mr. Montoya sighed. “Mr. Whitter, I think the Colombian president is concerned that if he acknowledges the plane was hijacked by forces that could be defined as terrorists, then America will overreact. He is frightened that the aid will stop and the United States military will be sent in to wreak havoc on his country.”

  “Good thing I didn’t tell the press that we’d flown five hundred soldiers into the country.” Banner spoke to Whitter under his breath.

  Whitter shot him a dirty look before turning back to Mr. Montoya.

  “Mr. Montoya, has the Colombian government told the embassy what it intends to do to find these passengers?”

  “I understand they have sent a search team,” Mr. Montoya said.

  “That found nothing,” Banner said. “Do you believe them?”

  Mr. Montoya sighed. “I don’t believe anything until I can confirm it through trusted sources. The corruption here is staggering. But understand that these people may have been long gone before the search team flew over. However, the Colombian president is also aware of the statistics regarding missing planes. He intends to mention these statistics in his defense of the Colombian special forces, and to defer any claims of corruption.”

  Banner leaned toward the television. “Mr. Montoya, I need to hear from someone in the administration. I want to know the steps they are taking to locate these people. If they are not adequate, then I will form an alternate plan.”

  Mr. Montoya held out his hands. “I understand and I’ll arrange a liaison with the proper authorities. There are over sixty political prisoners held in Colombia. The Colombian president is right now negotiating their release as part of the disarmament. Perhaps he should add this latest group to that list and then all the hostages will be released once the deal is finalized.”

  “And if the deal falls through? Then what?” Banner said.

  “Then I think we need to have faith that the Colombian government will put all its resources behind the search. That’s all we can do right now.”

  “I’ll assume that the Colombian government will do its job, but if it does not, then I intend to do mine,” Banner said.

  13

  EMMA TRUDGED ALONG, NOT LOOKING RIGHT OR LEFT, WHEN she nearly stumbled over the hand of a woman lying on the side of the path. The woman lay sprawled on her back. Her brown flowered polyester dress was covered with bits of nettles from various plants that she must have brushed against and her heavy legs were covered in bug bites. Emma squatted down next to her. The woman’s gray hair flowed over her face, obscuring her features. Emma moved it away. The woman looked to be about sixty-five, with the heavily lined face of a smoker. Her skin had a pasty white color. She gasped in short breaths, like a fish gulping air. Emma slid her arm under the woman’s shoulders to lift her up. The woman’s eyes fluttered and then opened.

  “Please help me,” she said.
/>   “Are you from Flight 689?”

  The woman nodded. “I’m Gladys Sullivan. I lost my heart medication in the crash. I can feel my heart is failing. I need my medication.”

  The woman struggled to sit up. Emma moved behind her to support her back.

  “What were you taking?” she asked. The woman mentioned a pill that Emma knew worked to regulate heart rate.

  “My heart’s been getting worse every day. I kept telling them I needed a doctor, but they didn’t care. They left me here to die.” The woman’s eyes shone with tears. Emma took the woman’s pulse. The beat was erratic, and it was clear she wouldn’t last much longer without her medication.

  “I’m a chemist. I can’t replicate your medication, but I did see some foxglove back on the path about an hour ago.” The woman seized in Emma’s arms, her whole body shaking. The convulsion passed and she grabbed at Emma’s hand.

  “Foxglove? Will it help?”

  Emma hesitated. She hated to give the woman too much hope. When properly distilled, foxglove became digitalis, one of the most effective heart medications for the past two hundred years. Problem was, it was also highly toxic.

  “It’s the plant that makes digitalis, but—”

  “Oh, yes! Please. You must get some for me.” The woman choked out the words between gasps.

  Emma shook her head. “It’s highly poisonous. I wouldn’t know the right amount to give you, and it could veer into toxicity too quickly for you to survive.”

  “What’s your name?” Ms. Sullivan said.

  “Emma Caldridge.”

  “Well, Ms. Caldridge, does it look as though I’ll survive much longer without it? I think it’s worth the chance.” Emma couldn’t argue with the woman. She looked dreadful. Emma shrugged off her pack and set up her tent. The woman’s eyes widened.

  “Will you look at that,” she said.

  “Let me help you inside. You can rest in there while I run back for the foxglove.”

  The woman clutched Emma’s arm. “Promise me you’ll return.”

  “Of course I will. Let me help you into the tent.” Emma wanted nothing more than to get moving. The light was fading. Soon the path would be too dark to navigate and they’d have to wait for dawn. Emma didn’t think Ms. Sullivan would last that long. She helped the woman shift into the tent and then patted her hand.

  “Just rest here. I’ll go get it.” Ms. Sullivan closed her eyes and let her head fall.

  Emma bolted out of the tent and ran down the path. She moved more freely without the pack. It was almost a joy to have the weight off her. She sped back, her head swinging from side to side. Perhaps she’d missed some more foxglove that was closer? Forty-five minutes later she spotted the tall plant with its white flowers surrounded by what looked like dried grass. She carefully removed the leaves and placed them in the leg pocket of her cargo pants. She spun around to return to Ms. Sullivan.

  By the time she reached the tent, the sky had deepened to a red glow. A minute later, the jungle plunged into full dark. Ms. Sullivan lay on her side in the tent, still gasping. Emma flicked on her lighter. The woman’s face held a white sheen and her breath was even more labored. She opened her eyes but seemed to look right through Emma. Emma pulled out leaves, ripped one in half, and gave the other half to the woman.

  “Here, chew on this. I don’t know if it’s enough or if it’s too much.” Ms. Sullivan nodded. She took the leaf in her shaking hand and put it in her mouth.

  No hesitation there, Emma thought. She watched as the woman grimaced.

  “Tastes bad?” Emma said.

  “Awful,” Ms. Sullivan managed to whisper. “Do you have any water?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I collect it in a small plate when it rains, but there is no way to transport it, so I have to drink it all and wait until I can collect more.”

  Ms. Sullivan waved a hand in the air. “Don’t worry,” she said. “When will we know if I swallowed too much?”

  Emma felt helpless. “I have no idea. It should take at least twenty minutes to start entering your system.”

  Ms. Sullivan lay back down and closed her eyes. Her chest still heaved with each breath, and her face stayed pale. Emma switched off the lighter.

  After ten minutes, she switched it back on. Ms. Sullivan’s face looked pinker, and her breaths came in the longer, slower rhythm of sleep. Emma lay next to the tent’s wall and fell asleep.

  The next morning, Ms. Sullivan’s breathing was once again labored, but not as much as it had been. She opened her eyes, looking around the tent before spying Emma.

  “So you weren’t a hallucination,” she said.

  “Not at all. How do you feel?” Emma checked the woman’s pulse at her wrist.

  “How is it?”

  “Erratic. But better than before, I think,” Emma said.

  “Help me out of this tent, will you? It’s as hot as Hades in here.”

  Emma helped her slide out of the tent, where she sat on the ground to catch her breath.

  “Do you have any food?” Ms. Sullivan said.

  Emma handed her a food package. Ms. Sullivan opened it and wrinkled her nose.

  “This is turning.”

  “I know. But it’s all I have.”

  Ms. Sullivan handed it back. “Is it your last? Here, you take it.”

  “Not at all. I have six more. You might as well eat it. They’ll all turn soon.”

  Ms. Sullivan nodded. “I guess you’re right.” She tore into the filet and closed her eyes.

  “Tastes like heaven, though. Much better than that dried beef jerky they’re feeding us.” She waved a finger at Emma. “I know. You’re thinking I should lose some weight.”

  Emma patted her on the shoulder. “I am thinking no such thing, Ms. Sullivan.” She looked thoughtful. “Come to think of it, how are they carrying all that food? I only see a small backpack like mine on each.”

  “They handed it out to us the first day. From the trucks that were parked on the side of the road. We carry our own.”

  Emma looked at Ms. Sullivan’s empty pockets. “If that’s true, where’s yours?”

  “They took it from me when they left me there to die. Call me Gladys, dear.” She stuck out a hand for Emma to shake. “I’m from Chicago. South Side Irish. I was heading to Bogotá to meet my sister, who moved there fifteen years ago.”

  Emma shook her hand. “Call me Emma. Why Bogotá?”

  “A man. Why else would an Irish woman from Chicago go to Bogotá?”

  “What does he do?”

  “Did. He died two months ago. I was heading down to help my sister pack to leave. He was a Christian missionary. He worked for a nonprofit that was dedicated to eradicating child soldiers and to bringing Jesus to the indigenous peoples.”

  “They use child soldiers here.” Emma thought about the boy tied up on the back of the truck.

  Gladys nodded. “Usually teenagers. They recruit them much like the gangs recruit in the States.”

  “Do they force them?” Emma said.

  Gladys shook her head. “They don’t have to. In parts of Colombia joining a paramilitary group is like joining the army in the States. The kids often have little schooling and fewer job opportunities, so the guerrilla groups offer a place to go.” She finished the entire plate of food and put it down. Emma felt a pang of panic. If Gladys continued to eat at that pace, they’d be out of food by tomorrow.

  “I saw you on the plane. ’Course then you looked different. Right now you look like a heathen. What in the world have you rubbed all over your body?”

  “Mud. It stops the mosquitoes.”

  “Ah,” Gladys said. “They are horrible, aren’t they? They sure do torment a soul. Have you been following us? Wouldn’t it have been safer to stay with the wreckage?” Emma was having a little trouble keeping up with Gladys’s stream-of-consciousness conversation, so she answered the last question she heard.

  “After you marched out they came back and blew it sky-high. I ran before it
exploded. I followed you because I didn’t know what else to do, and I was afraid of that man in the truck.”

  “The one in the shirtsleeves? He was a bad one, for sure. But the skinny one is crazy. He beats someone every day. Oh! That reminds me.” Gladys reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a rosary. “I’ve said a prayer every day since we’ve been captured.”

  Emma eyed the rosary. It was made of heavy beads that looked like onyx. A large silver engraved cross hung from the bottom. “Your rosary is beautiful.”

  Gladys held it up for Emma to see. “It was a gift from Charlie, my sister’s husband. One of the guerrillas tried to take it, but I told him God would curse him if he did.”

  “And he stopped? Didn’t he realize what he’s doing to all the hostages is far worse than stealing a rosary?”

  “You’re in Latin America now. Christianity is strong here, and it coexists with shamanism, santería voodoo, you name it. Guerrillas can be very superstitious. He didn’t want to mess with such a powerful symbol.” Gladys fingered the rosary and sighed. “Charlie was a good man. I pray for him, too.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it. I want to head down the path a little. Perhaps there’s a stream nearby and we can get some water.” Gladys nodded and closed her eyes. Her fingers ran over the beads, one by one, and Emma watched as her lips moved in the silent ritual prayers assigned to each.

  Emma ran for half an hour. No water anywhere. No food, either, at least nothing that she could identify as edible. She eyed a few caterpillars hanging out on a tree. If worse came to worst, she supposed she could eat them. She would have preferred some plants first.

  She spun around and ran back to Gladys. She found her lying in the same spot next to the tent, sweating profusely and gasping again. Emma grabbed some more foxglove out of her pocket. Tore the leaf in half and handed it over. Gladys chewed, this time without grimacing. After fifteen minutes, her breathing took on a more regular rhythm.

  “That was a close one,” Gladys said.

  Emma didn’t know what to say. Gladys needed a hospital, and soon. The foxglove wouldn’t work for long. Eventually Emma would overdose her by mistake, or the combination of a lack of food and water coupled with her heart condition would stress her body to the breaking point. These problems weren’t immediate, however.