ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER
AS I WAS ATTEMPTING TO SLALOM through an obstacle course of death, Joel2 was dealing with his own obstacles. In following Sylvia’s GDS location, the golf cart had been forced to go off the paved main mountain road and onto a decidedly unpaved, extremely bumpy cloud forest path.
“My suspension is not equipped for this terrain, sir,” the cart informed him. “Repair fees may be added to your rental price.”
“I don’t care if you get totaled,” said Joel2, ducking as a tree branch nearly clocked him in the face. “Just get me to that location as fast as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
The cart continued to bounce and rattle up the mountain. Joel2 tried to deduce what the Gehinnomites could want with his wife. Anytime he (or I) had a difficult dilemma to tackle, he would visualize a Go board in his mind. Then he would assign causes and effects to the black-and-white pieces.
Causes: Joan What’s-Her-Name blows up the Costa Rica TC. They take down comms in Costa Rica. Sylvia restores me from a backup. Taraval comes down and gives her a guilt trip. Gehinnomites kidnap my wife.
Effects: Everyone’s looking at teleportation right now. Double-checking its procedures and methods. Sylvia feels guilty. Taraval makes Sylvia more upset. I’m going to rescue her—somehow.
Unknowns: Who else knows about this? What was in the message that Sylvia sent this morning? Who did she send it to? What else don’t I know?
He commed Julie again. Her Rosie the Riveter avatar had on a concerned emoji expression.
“Joel. Any news?”
“Yes. Jules, listen, Sylvia’s been kidnapped.”
“What? Now I should definitely alert the authorities, right?”
“No! You can’t tell anyone; I think IT might be complicit in all this. The authorities are definitely on the wrong side of this equation. Listen, now more than ever, it’s really important that you tell me what Sylvia said in her message.”
“I can’t, Joel. I really can’t.”
“Okay.” He leaned sideways as the golf cart tore through a branch, leaving a hairline crack down the windshield. “How about we play a game? I will ask you questions about the message, and you tell me if I’m wrong. If you remain silent when I’m right, you’ll technically be withholding information, not providing it.”
“So—if you’re right, I don’t say anything?”
“Correct. And if I’m wrong, you say no. Either way, you won’t be divulging any confidential information—in fact, you’ll be withholding it.”
The cart scraped over a rock, causing Joel2 to nearly slam his head into the ceiling.
“That seems to fit with my parameters,” Julie finally said.
“Great. Did Sylvia send her message to an ostrich?”
“What? No.”
“Just testing.” “Oh, okay.”
“Did Sylvia send her message to someone in IT?” Silence.
“Did she send her message to Pema Jigme?”
“No.”
“Did she send her message to William Taraval?” Silence.
“Okay. Did her message mention her being kidnapped?”
“No.”
“Did her message mention me?”
Silence.
Why would she be comming with Taraval about me? “Did Taraval reply to her message?”
Silence.
“Did his response mention me?” Silence.
“Did his response mention something bad happening to me?”
Silence.
“I see,” said Joel2, choking on his voice.
The golf cart suddenly veered off the mountain road, bursting through a net of vegetation and out of the cloud forest. It was now speeding down a muddy access path in the middle of a landscaped hillside vineyard. Green unripened grapes drummed against the sides of the cart like tiny pebbles. A few burst on the windshield. Still, the tiny vehicle continued to climb.
Joel2 wasn’t sure how to proceed. He still clung on to hope. Hope that his wife would never volunteer to do “something bad” to him, especially considering what she had done to save his life yesterday. But then again, she also hadn’t told him that she was working on a method to store human beings in the glacier forever, like so many forgotten streams of family gatherings. Was it possible he didn’t even know who Sylvia really was?
Before he could muster an answer to that question, the golf cart came to a rattling stop in front of a large three-story mountaintop villa. The estate was surrounded by a whitewashed wall of adobe, and had views of the cloud forest on three sides. A generous drone parking area covered in moss-ringed pavers stretched out before the mansion, a mosaic-covered fountain bubbling quietly at its center. Two all-terrain vehicles were parked to one side, while on the other was a mud-splattered RV.
Joel2 and Sylvia’s RV.
“Game over, Jules,” he said as he stepped out of the shuddering golf cart. “If you hear anything from Sylvia, tell her—tell her I still love her.” And he did. Even if she was complicit in this—whatever this was—he couldn’t leave her in the hands of the Gehinnomites. He wanted to look her in the face, hold her in his arms, and hear the truth from her own lips before he made any more judgments.
“Will do,” said the AIDE. “And, Joel?” “Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
“Of what?”
“You know I can’t say.”
“Worth a shot.” He shrugged and then hung up.
Guess I’m about to find out anyway. That, or I’ll get killed.
Joel2 glanced down the mountain. A nicely maintained road curved on a gentle incline to a wooden gatehouse about a quarter mile below. “What the hell, there was a paved road to this place?” he said to the golf cart.
“You said you wanted the fastest route possible,” the vehicle reminded him.
Joel2 tsk-tsked. “Those bumps must have really rattled your code.” Still, he patted the cart on its hood and crept into the parking area. It was empty, but he thought walking through the front door was probably a bad idea, especially since he didn’t have any weapons. A hand-carved wooden sign hung off to the right side of the house, labeled LA JARDÍN in white paint. He walked past it and then down a steep flight of stone steps. Moist fallen leaves squished beneath his feet, making him slip.
Fuckin’ Monteverde, he thought as he continued into a lush, overgrown jungle garden. Everything here is always uphill or downhill. Why can’t they just build things at street level?
Because we’re on a mountain, Joel. Mountains go up and down. Do I need to remind you what monte verde means in Spanish?
He passed a half dozen tables and a small apiary. Reaching the other end of the garden, Joel2 found himself at the bottom of another stone stairway. This one led up to what looked like a wide patio on the back of the house. He scanned the nearby area, finding a mossy baseball-bat-sized stick and hefting it in his hand. It wasn’t an assault rifle, but it was better than nothing.
Joel2 double-checked his comms. Sylvia was definitely inside. He was about to head up the stairs with his branch when the back patio door slid open. He ducked behind a broad ceiba tree. Footsteps squished down the wet stairs, then foliage crunched as whoever it was walked directly toward Joel2’s hiding spot.
The person started whistling. It sounded as though they were watering the tree. You’re in a cloud forest idiot. Nobody’s watering shit. That’s a guy taking a leak.
Joel2 tightened his grip on his bat-branch. Sharp, stabbing pains made him look down at his hand. The branch was crawling with red ants. Fire ants. Still—this was his chance. He was tougher than I would have been in that situation. And he proved it, stepping around the tree trunk and swinging the branch like Ted Williams going for the fences.
The urinating man had barely managed to turn and look at his assailant before Joel2 hit him at the base of his skull. Whether it was the adrenaline pumping through his veins or some kind of hyperactive drive to live, Joel2 swung much harder than he needed to. The guard’s head snapped backward, cracking against the tree trunk behind him like an egg on the edge of a bowl. He stared at Joel2 for a brief moment, a look of pure confusion on his pockmarked brown face. Then a line of blood dribbled out of one nostril and he collapsed to the wet forest floor.
Joel2 dropped the branch, brushing the still-biting fire ants off his hand. He peered down at the unsuspecting Gehinnomite. The first thing that occurred to him was how ordinary the felled man looked. He wore brown corduroy pants and a tacky button-down shirt decorated in purple and yellow flowers. The next thing he noticed was that the man’s head jutted off at an unnatural angle from his body. There were two lumps in his neck where none should be. Spinal cord lumps.
The man was dead.
Previous to this, the worst act of violence Joel2 had ever unleashed on a fellow human being was a kick in the nuts. He tried to remind himself that this guy was no fellow human being, he was one of his wife’s kidnappers, and—just like in the boxing ring—this was an unfair fight that he had not chosen. He did what he had to do, using the skills at his disposal to survive. That didn’t stop a heavy, cold, and definitely sinking feeling from manifesting itself. It was like a brick of ice descending from chest to gut. This was not a kick in the balls. It was murder.
His throat rose involuntarily, but he managed to keep down last night’s dinner.
Amid the noises of the forest, a loud, deep birdcall snapped him out of his downward spiral. Sylvia, he reminded himself, brushing the last few fire ants off his arm.
Tabling his revulsion, he bent down to examine the dead man. In a makeshift holster on his hip was a smooth brown truncheon. At least that was something. “He had a weapon. It was self-defense,” Joel2 whispered. Unprovoked self-defense, came a niggling voice in his head, but he ignored it and grabbed the carved wooden club.
Joel2 slowly crept up the stone stairway, unsure of who or what he would encounter next. He reconsidered Julie’s suggestion to call the authorities. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe IT was only trying to help. Still, now that he’d murdered a man, that option seemed more untenable than ever.
He peered over the top of the ridge to see the patio was empty. It also had an amazing view of the entire cloud forest.
“Eduardo?” a man’s voice called from inside the villa. “Eduardo? ¿Sigues orinando?” His accent was too thick for Joel2’s comms to translate.
Joel2 hustled up to the patio and ducked behind a corner just as another man walked to the top of the garden stairs. He wore a Hawaiian shirt like Eduardo’s, and tan corduroy slacks. His face fell as he saw Eduardo’s body in the garden below. As the man ran down to it, Joel2 mentally kicked himself for not hiding the body.
“Eduardo—ay dios mío!” the second man wept.
Glancing down the stairs, Joel2 ascertained that the man was about the same build as him, and could be overpowered if need be. Just go for the knees this time. He clutched his truncheon, and was about to rush down the stairs, when a board in the patio deck creaked.
The weeping man whipped his head around. Seeing Joel2, his eyes burned with raw fury.
Joel2 backed away, raising his truncheon in self-defense, but the man was up the steps and upon him in moments. He grabbed the club from Joel2’s hands and swung it right into his forehead. Pain exploded like a firework in his brain. Joel2 dropped to the patio floor, shielding his face as fists, feet, and elbows rained down on him. Joel2 didn’t stand a chance.
“Stop. Please!” he screamed. “I’m sorry!”
The beating paused. Joel2 heard heavy breathing.
“Jes, now joo be really sorry,” the man responded.
Joel2 curled into a fetal ball. He heard the man walk a few paces into the villa. Something heavy was dragged across the terra cotta floor. There was a weird metallic clicking. A guiro? Joel2 wondered. Costa Rican music often featured the ridged musical instrument, sometimes made of metal, that rasped when scraped with a stick. But was his attacker really planning to kill him with a percussion instrument?
Joel2 peeked out from under his arm. Edification, unfortunately, did not bring relief. He found himself looking up into the business end of an antique weapon—which his comms helpfully identified as a Remington Model 870 Express seven-round, pump-action shotgun.