Chapter 17
“Edwards?” Durrand’s voice sounded strained. Or maybe he was just tired. As far as she knew, he hadn’t slept for a minute on the plane and it was dark now. Then again, it was dark twelve hours a day year-round this close to the equator. When accustomed to a world where the days shortened with autumn’s falling temperatures, it was oddly discombobulating.
“Yes?” Eddy answered. They had managed to get international cell phone coverage before leaving the U.S..
“What’s your location?” Relief or something like it softened his tone.
“I reserved a private room at a hostel in la Candelaria for the night.”
“Everything went okay?”
“Without a hitch,” she said, which was something of a falsehood. While inquiring about rooms at a questionable motel, a trio of young men had heckled her, calling her mami and making kissing noises, but she’d gotten into her vehicle and locked the doors before the situation escalated. Still, it had made her jumpy then subsequently guilty. She was a trained agent and an excellent marksman, for God’s sake. There was no reason she should have to hide like a hunted bunny. “I rented a Jeep and purchased a few supplies. How did it go for you?”
“I’ll debrief when we meet up,” he said, but his tone suggested he was less than jubilant about the afternoon’s events. “What’s the address of the hostel?” She rattled it off. He repeated it more slowly. A car door slammed. Cabs abounded in Colombia, but there were always caveats issued about those procured on the street. It was advised to only utilize taxis called by a hotel. Then again, if you were built like Thor on steroids it probably mattered less how you obtained your ride. “I’ll be there soon,” he said, speaking to her again.
“Me, too.”
“What’s that?” She could hear the strain tighten like a spring in his voice.
“I think we’re breaking up,” she said. “Get some sleep. I’ll talk to you—”
“Where are you?” Strain was heading rapidly toward irritation.
Eddy drew a careful breath through her nose and smiled at the proprietor of El Cerdo. He’d been watching her intermittently from near a bank of multi-faceted bottles. His name was Miguel. He looked tired and bored and maybe a little angry. She’d been sipping Aguardiente, arguably Colombia’s national drink, for forty-five minutes, trying to loosen him up. But he didn’t seem to be the loose kind. Then again, he didn’t seem to be the murderous sort that would dump her mutilated body into the odiferous dumpsters behind the building either, so maybe it was a pretty good trade off.
“I’m just getting some supper.” It was kind of the truth. She had ordered a quesadilla with her “firewater” and tried to ignore the malevolent stare of the decapitated pig that hung not five feet from her stool. Its left ear was half missing and its tusks broken. The ratty capybara to its right hadn’t survived the years much better.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Listen…” She smiled at Miguel again. He was patently unimpressed. It would almost be worth having Durrand looming nearby just to let him see how uninteresting most men found her. “I’m not a child. I’ll—”
“Give me your location, Edwards. That’s an order.”
She debated refusing, but she couldn’t afford to lose this job. Not from a financial or a career standpoint, so she rattled off the name of the establishment and the cross streets. He hung up without preamble or explanation but it was a pretty fair bet that he would show up within the next fifteen minutes. Which meant she had run out of time to soften up Miguel. Time for a new tack. She debated which direction to go. He obviously didn’t care for her. Then again, perhaps she shouldn’t take that personally. Maybe it was Americanos in general he disliked.
She stifled a wince and reminded herself that she probably wasn’t solely responsible for his low opinion of her compatriots. Still, her every insecurity itched to change his mind. People Pleasing 101 insisted on it, but she swallowed hard and searched for the tough-as-nails persona she’d pursued for so long. “That was my husband,” she said and smoothed a hand down the daisy yellow sundress she had slipped into before coming here. She’d shoved the singular girly garment into her bag at the last minute…in case of emergencies.
Miguel glanced up from where he was washing glasses, dark eyes impassive.
“Ordering me around,” she added.
He didn’t shrug, but somehow his expression managed to imply that a good wife would be home preparing ajiaco while simultaneously scrubbing floors and swaddling babies.
She felt the people pleaser in her take a cautious step to the rear.
Prodding her shy alpha persona forward, she drained the Aguardiente she’d been sipping and felt the hot effects wash like nitro through her already bubbling system. “This is my vacation, too.” The words sounded surprisingly aggressive. Huh. Go alcohol.
“You have another drink?” Miguel’s English was broken, but there was something in the inflection of his words that made her think his command of the language might be somewhat better than he admitted.
She shrugged as if to say why not and slid the glass toward him. “I didn’t want to come here.”
He sloshed the vodka lookalike into her cup as if it were water.
“Don’t get me wrong, Colombia’s very pretty,” she said and stifled a burp.
He didn’t respond.
“But Nicaragua…” He slid the drink toward her. She tried a scowl. It never felt like she did it quite right. Luis, her second and last serious boyfriend, had once said she had a face made for smiles. That was six hours and seventeen minutes before she found out he was screwing a mutual friend. Their breakup had been quietly amicable. “It hasn’t been raped of its natural resources yet.”
Miguel narrowed his eyes at her. His was not a face made for smiles. She swallowed hard and wished she still had the colonel’s ASP firmly thrust into her waistband.
“But my husband thought it was too dangerous. Made me come to this godforsa—” She stopped short as if it took an effort to waylay her insults. “Men are such pansies,” she muttered instead.
Miguel’s knuckles looked a little white against the washcloth he was squeezing. From behind, she could feel the other patrons’ attention settle on the back of her neck.
She tried another scowl. It felt better. Maybe copious amounts of alcohol was the answer. “We might as well have gone trekking in New Jersey for all the excitement we’ll find here.”
“It is excitement you want, chica?”
She glanced at the bartender from under her lashes and exhaled derisively. “Everyone knows Colombia is as safe as Disneyland since Santos was elected.” She made sure her Spanish was broken and uncertain.
“Santos.” He snorted the name.
“What about him?”
He shrugged, but there was a light in his eyes. “He has made it safe for the wealthy who hide behind their iron fences. But gringo women…if they are smart…” He shrugged.
“What?” she asked, switching back to English and employing a certain amount of aggressive bravado.
“They should not come to places such as this.”
“What about the jungle?”
“The jungle?” He laughed. “Of course, the jungle, it is safe.”
“Well, safer,” she corrected. “Since the U.S. cracked down on FARC activities, the rebels are scared to breathe too loudly.”
“Sí. Rarely do they any longer kill their captives this days.” He leaned heavily against the bar. “Not until they learn whether they can get the monies, at least.”
“Latin men…” She scoffed and forced herself to drink again.
He stepped a little closer. “What of them?”
She smiled up at him. Her throat felt tight, her face hot. “They’ve always been uncomfortable with strong women.”
“Have they?”
She nodded. “That’s why you’re trying to scare me now.”
He tilted his head a little. “I will leave such things to men like Guapo Herrera.”
“I’ve heard of him,” she admitted.
“Indeed?”
“Some people think he’s dabbling in cocaine. But I believe he’s nothing more than a legitimate businessman.”
“Surely, you have an American education, so I am certain you know best.”
“You think I’m wrong?”
He shook his head. “No. Guapo will not harm you. But his man, Quinto Castelle…sometimes he likes to take in…guests.” He shrugged elaborately. “Still, I am certain he had nothing to do with the chica found near Herrera’s rancho. She was naked and gutted.”
If he was trying to frighten her, he was doing a bang-up job, but she raised her chin and soldiered on. “You’re making that up.”
“A tour group, Americanos, in fact, found her body…parts of it, I shall say…at the bottom of Quebrada Verde.”
“Quebrada Verde…” she repeated and drank again. It felt like acid in her stomach.
“Not so far from Parque La Paya.”
“I guess I’ll avoid that particular area then.”
“Why ever so? It is a lovely park, and the poor lady probably but met with an unfortunate accident. Though…” He shrugged. “She did have a G branded across the lips.”
“He branded her?” She meant to drink, but her stomach coiled, warning her against such foolishly cavalier behavior.
“Your research it did not tell you the beautiful one likes to see his visitors branded?”
She shook her head and found she was barely able to do that much.
“Then it must not be so.”
“Or it happened years ago,” she suggested.
He snorted.
“It did, didn’t it?” she challenged. Pushing herself to her feet, she leaned toward him. “You’re just trying to frighten me. It happened long ago, didn’t it?”
“Sí, boca perra inteligente!” he snarled and smacked both hands on the bar just inches from hers. “If Tuesday was long ago.”
“Back away.” The voice coming from behind was low and quiet. It took her several seconds to recognize Durrand’s feral growl, but try as she might, she was not able to drag her gaze from the Latino’s. For a few heart-pounding moments, she was certain Miguel would ignore Durrand, would grab her by the hair and drag her across the bar. But he drew a deep breath through his nostrils finally and backed carefully back.
“Señor,” he said, voice barely a whisper in the suddenly silent cantina. “This is your wife?”
Eddy turned woodenly toward Durrand. His brows were low over river-deep eyes, his arms rigid, his right hand thrust into the pocket of his khakis.
“She’s mine,” he said.
Miguel eased back another half an inch, lifting his palms from the bar and drawing air deep into his lungs. “Then you should teach her when to speak and when it is wise to keep the silence.”
Not a soul batted an eye. Everyone with half a brain cell waited for Durrand to pull a stiletto from his pocket, but when he removed his hand, he held nothing more deadly than a sheaf of bills.
“I’ll do that,” he said and slipping twenty thousand pesos onto the bar, wrapped his big fist around Eddy’s arm and tugged her toward the door.