Running from the Devil Page 9

  “How much rock did you smoke before you saw this Chupacabra, eh?”

  A couple of the guerrillas snickered. Luis chalked their reaction up as a hit.

  Juan shook his head. “No more than usual, huh? And look at me. How do you think I got these wounds? I tell you, I was attacked by El Chupacabra!”

  “You. Were. Not!” Luis grabbed the machete tighter and spun around. The steel glinted in the early morning light as he slashed the blade down, aiming at the tall man’s neck. A woman passenger screamed; a scream cut short by a male passenger clapping his hand over her mouth.

  Luis timed the attack to match the moment the tall man looked away, but the man spun around at the sound of the scream and dodged the blade. The machete sank into his upper shoulder, slicing the skin, but missed his neck, which was Luis’s real target. The tall man staggered but didn’t go down.

  The tall man faced Luis, his eyes clouded with anger and pain. He said nothing as his blood soaked through his shredded shirt. After a minute, he took several slow steps backward, still standing upright, stopping when he reached the circle of passengers.

  Luis threw the machete on the ground. “That is what will happen to you, Juan, if you talk about green monsters again. And, Manzillo, you will stand sentry tonight.”

  Luis stalked back to his coffeepot and dry-meat breakfast. Alvarado resumed yelling, and the camp prepared once again to march.

  15

  MIGUEL STOOD IN A DOUBLE-WIDE TRAILER THAT SERVED AS A command post and looked at the twenty special forces men assigned to assist in the airplane reconnaissance. Most had been stationed in Colombia for the past six months. All had seen some sort of action. Three had minor injuries, and one was newly recovered from a nasty bout of dengue fever, the scourge of hot-weather locales the world over.

  Miguel had arrived by helicopter, flying over the area he would traverse on foot. Nothing but trees and mountains for miles. The beauty stunned him; the complete isolation worried him. The Colombian police force refused to join him in the search.

  “That is for the Colombian special forces. We do not have the additional men to spare for such an endeavor,” one official had said.

  “This is how the Colombian government treats its allies?” Miguel said.

  The official nodded. “Your government has not sufficiently provisioned you for the mission you are about to undertake. You have no dogs to sniff for the mines, and no army backup. You will be dead in a few days unless you take additional precautions. I will not send my men on a suicide mission.”

  “Any suggestions?” Miguel hadn’t bothered to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  “Fly over the area. Do not attempt to go there on foot. The forest is heavily mined and bandits are everywhere. You can find the wreckage just as easily from the air, perhaps more so, and your odds of dying while looking will be drastically reduced.”

  “We will begin with air review, of course, but once we spot the crash site, we will drop men into it. They will canvass the vicinity for survivors.”

  “A very bad idea, sir. They are bound to step on a land mine.” The government official looked sad.

  “Perhaps I’ll arrange for a bomb-sniffing dog,” Miguel said.

  “I’d suggest you get one for every soldier. If you do not, the paw-breakers will get them.”

  “Paw-breakers?” Miguel said.

  The man nodded. “Small mines designed to blow off limbs. They are homemade and activated by hypodermic syringes or mousetraps.”

  “Wonderful,” Miguel said.

  “Welcome to Colombia.” The man had shrugged as he said this.

  Miguel was heartened when he saw the soldiers assigned to the mission. He had been forced to accept fewer men than he’d wanted, but the ones he did have seemed solid and ready for the jungle trek. Most looked fit enough for the hiking that would be required, but none looked very eager to begin. Worse, they all wore light, sand-colored camouflage pants. They might as well have been wearing white, for all the good the light camos would do for them.

  Miguel introduced himself. “I’m your commander for this search-and-rescue operation. We’re planning on heading deep into the jungle, so can anyone explain to me why you’re all wearing camouflage used for desert missions?”

  “We were scheduled to go to Iraq, but they pulled us off at the last minute and sent us here instead.” One of the soldiers in the back row offered the clarification.

  Miguel sighed. The Colombian officer’s comment about the lack of preparation for the mission appeared to be right on target.

  “Anything I need to know that may be useful in this mission?” Miguel’s question opened the floodgates.

  “The paramilitary groups are worse than the cartels, by far.” A soldier in the front row piped up with this not-so-helpful comment.

  “Worse than drug dealers? Hard to believe,” Miguel said.

  “Believe it, sir. They care less about life than the drug dealers. The drug dealers want to keep their clients alive. Dead clients don’t buy drugs, after all. But the paramilitary guys don’t give a damn about civilian life because they don’t make all their money from the drug trade.”

  “What’s your name and how do you know so much about the paramilitary guys?”

  The soldier stood up and saluted. “Private Gabriel Kohl, and I’ve been here the longest.”

  “Well, Private, then how do the guerrillas make money?”

  “They siphon gas from the pipeline and sell it on the black market. Those that aren’t siphoning bomb it, and extort protection money from the local government. Those that don’t siphon or bomb, kidnap.”

  “So I’ve heard. And the government pays extortion money? Why?”

  “Hell, half the paramilitary guys we’re dealing with are the relatives of the governmental officials, so in many cases the government has no real incentive to shut them down.”

  “Sounds just like Miami.” Miguel’s voice was dry. He handed out copies of a picture of Emma.

  “This is a passenger from Flight 689. Name of Emma Caldridge.”

  Kohl whistled. “Man, she’s pretty!”

  Miguel frowned at Kohl.

  “Uh, sorry, sir, just an observation,” Kohl said.

  Miguel glanced at the picture. “She is pretty, but that’s not why I gave you the picture. She’s an extreme runner and chemist who somehow managed to send a text message from her telephone after the crash.” He handed out copies of Emma’s text message. “There are several guerrilla organizations operating in the area from where we received the message, but we have reason to believe that the group that collected the passengers was headed by one Luis Rodrigo.”

  Several men groaned.

  “Exactly,” Miguel said. “We need to find the passengers before Rodrigo annihilates them all. And we’ll need some way to locate the mines. I understand he’s famous for them. Kohl, do you have any idea where we might obtain a bomb-sniffing dog?”

  Private Kohl thought for a moment. “The Colombian army guys have a couple of German shepherds that they use for mine clearing.”

  “Take me to them. Let’s see if we can borrow them.”

  Within a couple of hours, Miguel arranged to take two German shepherds, named Boris and Natasha, with them on their journey. After securing the shepherds, Miguel called Carol Stromeyer.

  “Major Stromeyer, I’ve got twenty special forces men dressed for the Iraqi desert instead of the Colombian jungle. Any chance you can get the DOD to spring for the proper clothing?”

  “No problem. Get me their names. I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

  Three hours after that, the first search helicopters took off.

  16

  STROMEYER STOOD BEFORE A YOUNG RECEPTIONIST SITTING behind a mahogany desk in the Pure Chemistry lobby. The company’s success was manifested in its corporate offices. Housed in a glass building with green-tinted windows, the facility occupied half a city block. A brochure placed in the reception area boasted that Pure Chemistry co
ntained a state-of-the-art laboratory.

  Stromeyer introduced herself. After a few minutes, a large man dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved white shirt walked up to her. He sported a bad comb-over, a polyester tie that was askew, and a plastic pocket protector in the shirt’s breast pocket. Stromeyer couldn’t begin to imagine the thoughts Banner would have if he saw Mr. White. He smiled a grin that exposed miles of gums, and stuck his hand out.

  “I’m Gerald White. Nice to meet you. I’ve got the additional information on Emma Caldridge that you need.”

  Stromeyer shook his hand. “I appreciate it.”

  White led her past the receptionist into a carpeted hallway lined with doors. They reached one in the back.

  “Here’s my office. Would you like some coffee?” He opened the door.

  Mr. White’s office bore the stamp of a professional decorator. It was the antithesis of the man himself. The square-shaped room had a bank of windows on one side with a view of a small grassy area next to the building. A sleek cherrywood desk held a laptop in a docking station, a manila folder, and nothing else. Bookshelves lined the walls. Stromeyer saw a Grey’s Anatomy along with several volumes of scientific journals. A book titled Nostradamus, the Predictions caught her eye.

  “Interesting choice, Nostradamus,” she said.

  White gave her a sheepish look. “He was a sort of scientist, you know. I’ve always been fascinated by him.” White grabbed the manila folder. He perched on the edge of the desk.

  “I have Ms. Caldridge’s personnel file here. As you know, it’s confidential, but I can tell you some information without the need for a subpoena. Like how long she’s been employed by us, her job description, et cetera.”

  “How long has she been employed here?”

  “Eighteen months. She transferred here from a job at a prestigious lab in the Midwest. We were very excited to get her, because she already had quite a reputation for her knowledge of plants.”

  “I’ve read an article about her in Science magazine. Something about adding artificial chromosomes to plants,” Stromeyer said.

  Mr. White nodded, a look of excitement in his eyes. “Yes, that work is truly groundbreaking. The Mondrian Chemical Company is looking to license her technology.”

  “Is she continuing that research here?”

  Mr. White shifted, as if nervous. “Not exactly. We do cosmetic chemistry. However, some of her work complements our needs. For example, we know that vitamin C liquid acts as a powerful antioxidant, but a serum containing it degrades quickly into a useless liquid. Ms. Caldridge helped create the technology that allows the ingredient to retain its potency for consumer use.”

  “Why did she leave her last job?”

  “Her fiancé died. She decided to move here to be near her father. He had retired to Florida.”

  “I’d heard something about the fiancé. How did he die?”

  “Car accident. He was hit by a drunk driver who veered into on-coming traffic.”

  “How tragic.”

  White nodded. “She doesn’t talk about it much, but I bumped into some of her former colleagues at a seminar and they say she was devastated.” He handed Stromeyer a piece of paper from the folder.

  “She gave her father’s name and address as her emergency contact. George Caldridge, 2370 Poinsettia Place, Miami Beach. Here’s the phone number.”

  “Do you think he knows that she was on Flight 689?”

  White nodded. “I imagine not the exact flight, but he knew she was headed to Bogotá. Ms. Caldridge mentioned to her secretary that she’d informed her family of her trip.”

  Stromeyer couldn’t help but be shocked. What kind of father didn’t call after his daughter when he knew she was on a flight from the same American city, to the same region, on the same day, that a jet went down?

  “Has he been in contact with Pure Chemistry?”

  White shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, we tried to contact him, but there’s no answer, and the machine is set to take no messages.”

  “Ms. Caldridge sent a text to you after the plane went down. Are you very close?”

  Mr. White looked pleased. His face turned pink in the beginnings of a blush. “We are. She’s brilliant, but easy to work with. Not the usual combination in our business. A lot of scientists are eccentric, to say the least.” It was clear Mr. White had a crush on Ms. Caldridge.

  Stromeyer stood up. “Could I see her office? It would give me a feel for her.”

  “Of course. Most of her time here is spent in the lab, which is off-limits to visitors, but her office is right down the hall.” Stromeyer followed White, who led her two doors down the hallway. He opened the door and waved her in.

  The office benefited from the same professional decoration as White’s. It, too, had windows that looked out onto the same grassy area, a bookshelf built into a wall, and a cherrywood desk that was identical to White’s. Her desk contained a notepad engraved at the top with the words From the desk of Emma Caldridge, an empty laptop docking station, and a framed photograph of Emma with her arms wrapped around the waist of a man. Stromeyer picked up the picture.

  “Is this the fiancé?” she said.

  White nodded. “His name was Patrick McBain.”

  Both Emma and the man smiled into the camera. They looked happy and carefree. Stromeyer replaced the frame on the desk.

  “Do you know if she took her laptop with her?”

  White shook his head. “Doubtful. We have strict controls on how much information our scientists can cart around. We’d hate for a competitor to get their hands on some of our work, and laptops can be easily stolen. When not in use, they’re locked in a secure room.”

  Stromeyer was surprised. “Is the information that valuable?”

  White smiled. “The cosmetics industry is based on fast-paced innovation. Once a product is on the market, generics will re-create it within months. Next thing you know, your expensive face cream is shelved next to the drugstore’s cheaper house brand. Our clients expect to be copied once they launch, but they insist that we maintain tight security during the research-and-development phase.”

  Stromeyer eyed the bookshelf. A volume entitled The Indigenous People of Colombia caught her eye. She pulled it off the shelf and showed it to White.

  “Had she been to Colombia before?”

  White wiped his hands on his thighs. Stromeyer thought he once again looked nervous.

  “She went to the Ciudad Perdida last year.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Lost City. Ancient ruins, like Peru’s Machu Picchu, located in the Colombian Sierra Nevada Mountains not far from the coast. The site remained hidden until the 1970s, when grave robbers discovered it. Of course the indigenous people always knew it was there. To get there requires a grueling six-day trek through jungle and paramilitary-controlled coca fields. Not too many people attempt it. Emma took the trek last year.”

  “Looking for plants?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she find any?”

  White shook his head. “She’d hoped that the indigenous people would utilize the local plants in a new, useful way, but all they used was the coca plant.”

  Stromeyer was surprised. “Really?”

  White chuckled. “Really. They think it’s a sacred plant that confers strength and fertility on those who ingest it. They chew it for energy. Needless to say, we couldn’t utilize that particular plant.”

  “You win some, you lose some.” Stromeyer smiled at White.

  White laughed. “You’ve got that right.”

  Stromeyer replaced the book and held out her hand. “Thanks for your help. I’ll drive by Mr. Caldridge’s house and check it out.”

  “Of course. As I told you on the phone, Ms. Caldridge is one of my best researchers. She’s one of the few people I know who are completely unafraid of new situations. She’d fly to the most dangerous places in the world if it meant discovering something new and exciting.”

&nb
sp; “Does Pure Chemistry have kidnap insurance for her?” The thought just popped into Stromeyer’s head.

  “No. We only take out ‘kidnap’ and ‘key man’ insurance for our CEO. The rest of us are stuck flying without a net, so to speak. Perhaps her family will offer a ransom.”

  “Not likely, Mr. White. They haven’t bothered to check on her.”

  Mr. White looked glum. “I know. Not what I’d expect, frankly. She’s a nice woman. Seems like she’d come from a nice family.”

  After leaving Pure Chemistry, Stromeyer drove over the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. She found Poinsettia Place in a small, gated community on a strip of land flanked by water. The houses were solid brick with shingle roofs, unusual for Miami, with its emphasis on Spanish tile and Mediterranean architecture. These houses could have been in New Hampshire or Connecticut.

  The Caldridge house was a ranch style with a red brick exterior and a dark shingle roof. Solid and prosperous-looking, it sat on a corner, with trimmed bushes surrounding the perimeter, red bougainvillea climbing up the side walls, and orange hibiscus and crocus plants lining a brick sidewalk.

  Stromeyer rang the bell and waited. Four minutes later, she rang again. She checked her watch. Five minutes later, she rang again. Nothing. The curtains on a front picture window remained closed. Whether against the noonday sun or because the owner was gone, Stromeyer couldn’t tell. She walked around the house. Two large air-conditioning units sat on one side. Silent. This told Stromeyer everything she needed to know. As far as she could tell, these were the only air conditioners in the entire state of Florida that were switched off. Florida’s streets baked in oppressive heat, while every interior Stromeyer visited remained ice-cold. If George Caldridge’s air was turned off, he wasn’t home and wasn’t planning on being home for a while; it was as simple as that. She climbed back into her government-issued sedan and ruminated on the missing-in-action senior Caldridge all the way back to Southern Command.