Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

“God, this is great.” The pork fell apart in Emma’s mouth and tasted like heaven. Sumner nodded and carved some more for her.

They ate in silence. Sumner retreated into himself and his private thoughts. It was as if the burst of laughter had never occurred. After eating, Emma shoved a small steel bowl she’d pilfered back at Mathilde’s checkpoint into her backpack and used it as a pillow. She stared at Sumner, thinking about his shot at the helicopter.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“My father.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Minnesota. Guns came with the territory.”

“What do you do for the Southern Hemisphere Drug Defense?”

“I monitor unidentified planes flying under radar in and out of Miami.”

“Ah. So that explains your extensive knowledge of the habits of drug runners and your excellent Spanish.”

Sumner shrugged and stayed silent.

“How many languages do you speak?” she said.

“Four.”

Emma was impressed. “I speak two. Well, three, really. English, German, and Latin. As a scientist, Latin is the language I probably use the most, which is odd because it’s a dead language. Is German one of the four you speak?”

Sumner nodded. She wanted to press him for more personal information but decided that further interrogation wasn’t necessary. Besides, his one-syllable answers made for slow going. They had plenty of time to get acquainted, and the mosquitoes were out and eating her alive.

“I’m headed to the tent. I’ve had enough of bugs for one day,” she said.

Sumner nodded again and continued to eat the pork. Emma scrambled into the tent, smashing two mosquitoes that had found their way in behind her. She rolled onto her side, but rather than sleep she found herself waiting for Sumner to join her. There was something reassuring about his quiet presence. She liked that he rarely spoke unless it was required, and that he hadn’t been swayed by Mathilde’s beauty into relaxing his caution. Emma had dealt with intense people before. Many of her ultramarathon friends had the same quiet intensity, and she herself could not be described as a social butterfly, far from it.

She also liked that he seemed at ease with the isolation. In Emma’s experience, few people were so content with themselves as to spend long periods of time alone, and the ones who were tended to be damaged in some way. She had the feeling that this man might be one of the few who could handle both isolation and society with aplomb.

Sumner pushed aside the netting door and crawled into the tent, taking care not to touch her. Emma pretended to sleep while he arranged himself against the far wall. He lay down on his side, facing her. The nights were so dark that Emma couldn’t see anything, least of all Sumner’s face, but she had the distinct impression that he was awake and staring in her direction. She stayed still, and after fifteen minutes more, she heard him sigh. She fell asleep.

28

EMMA CALDRIDGE LIVED IN A CONDOMINIUM COMPLEX IN THE South Pointe area of Miami Beach. The complex occupied an entire block on Second Avenue. Close enough to walk to the beach, but far enough to allow for some peace. Stromeyer stood in front of Emma’s door while she watched Miriam Steinberg, the chairman of Emma’s condo association, put a key into the lock. Mrs. Steinberg wore cotton sweatpants with a matching cotton top and spangled flip-flops, and carried a huge straw tote bag as a purse.

“I don’t know what to think, what with you coming with a warrant and all,” Mrs. Steinberg said. Stromeyer sought to put her at ease.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about. I’m in charge of looking into the victims’ lives in order to get background on them. You needn’t worry.” Mrs. Steinberg shook her head.

“The poor girl. Such a tragedy.” The door swung open. “There. Just close it behind you. It’ll lock. I’ll come by later and throw the dead bolt.”

Stromeyer stepped into a small living room lined with windows. Sunlight streamed in through open curtains. The room was decorated in browns and greens with a mixture of modern furniture pieces and a few antiques thrown in to break up the minimalism. Tall palm plants in large planters occupied the corners, near sliding French doors that opened onto a small terrace. A flat-screen television sat on a modern wood credenza. Next to it was a Bose Wave stereo. To the right of the living room was a narrow hallway with two doors. To the left, in an L shape, was a small dining area, and farther left, behind the wall that held the television, was a small, square kitchen.

The kitchen was spotless. Stromeyer walked to the dishwasher. The display read CLEAN. As if Emma had started it before she left.

Stromeyer chided herself for calling Ms. Caldridge Emma, even in her mind. The more she learned about the woman, the more she wanted her to be a victim in this disaster, not a player, as Banner had called her, but Stromeyer needed to keep her objectivity. What she wanted and what was real might not match.

A telephone mounted on the wall docked in an answering-machine base. The machine blinked the number three in a pulsing LED display. Stromeyer pushed the message button. The machine whirred, and a woman’s voice poured out of the speaker.

“Emma, it’s Cindy, please call me. I heard about the crash and we’re all worried about you here.” Cindy was Caldridge’s secretary at Pure Chemistry. The second message was Cindy again, sounding even more worried. On the third, Stromeyer hit pay dirt. A man’s voice poured out of the machine.

“Honey, I know you said not to call, but I’m worried. Please send me a message that you’re all right.”

Stromeyer grabbed the receiver. A button allowed the owner to scroll through the caller identification list for the phone. The phone numbers of the last ten calls were there, neatly recorded, except the last. The last read PRIVATE CALLER.

“Damn,” Stromeyer said. She heard a key in the lock. She placed the phone into the dock without making a sound and moved to the corner of the kitchen. She peered around the wall at the front door. It swung open, and a man stepped into the living room. He hesitated a moment before turning to close the front door with a quiet push. Tall, tan, with silver hair cropped close to his head, he looked to be about sixty-five. He wore tailored khakis and a yellow polo shirt. He moved toward the kitchen, giving Stromeyer a full view of his face. It was George Caldridge. The resemblance to his daughter was unmistakable. Stromeyer stepped out of the kitchen.

“You must be George Caldridge,” she said.

The man gave a violent start. He pulled a small gun out of his pocket and pointed it at her.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

The gun surprised the hell out of Stromeyer. It was as unexpected as his visit. It was also obvious that Mr. Caldridge didn’t know how to use a gun. Stromeyer put up a hand to calm the man.

“I’m Major Carol Stromeyer. I work with a company in conjunction with the Department of Defense. I’m here investigating the hijacking of Flight 689. Please put the gun down.”

The gun stayed pointed at her. George Caldridge gave her a grim look.

“Haven’t you people done enough?” he said.

Now Stromeyer was confused. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Mr. Caldridge waved Stromeyer out of the kitchen. “Come out of there.”

She did, moving slowly, keeping her hands in sight so he could see that she wasn’t armed.

“You know what I mean. First you try to confiscate my daughter’s research, then you threaten her with treason should she not cooperate with your plan. She’s a scientist, not a traitor. She came upon the formula completely by accident, and you and your people knew it.”

“Mr. Caldridge, I swear to you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I work for Darkview, a security consultant firm contracted by the DOD. No one has informed me about any of this. What formula?”

Mr. Caldridge stared at Stromeyer hard for a moment. He sighed and lowered the gun.

“I don’t know what formula. Emma wouldn’t tell me. All she said was that she’d discovered something by accident. She said someone claiming to be from the DOD got wind of her discovery and wanted her to license the formula to them. When she refused, they started harassing her. Threatening to charge her with treason. Tapping her phone.”

“Did she give you a name?”

He shook his head. “No. She told me she had a plan that would end the harassment, though. She warned me to leave Florida for a while. She said she’d call when it was all clear. I knew that she’d intended to fly to Colombia. When I heard that the plane went down…” Mr. Caldridge’s voice cracked. Tears filled his eyes. He shook his head.

Stromeyer put her hands down. “Mr. Caldridge, she’s still alive, as far as we know. When the plane first went down she sent a text message to her boss at Pure Chemistry. And since then our search-and-rescue team found her luggage with yet another note from her tucked inside.”

Relief flowed over Mr. Caldridge’s face. “Oh, thank God. I’d heard about the toll-free number to call for information about the passengers, but I was afraid to turn on my cell. Emma insisted that I keep it off until she returned. She said they could use the signal to track it. She was afraid they’d use me to pressure her.”

Stromeyer had to agree with Emma. If whoever was harassing her had engineered the hijacking, then they were not afraid to employ any method to achieve their aims. Now Emma’s text message to her boss made sense. She had been afraid to send something to her father for fear of its being tracked.

Stromeyer waved at Mr. Caldridge. “You’d better come with me.”

“Where?” Mr. Caldridge’s voice was loaded with mistrust.

“Don’t worry, not to the DOD. I’m taking you to Darkview’s temporary offices. I need you to tell this story again to my partner.”

Mr. Caldridge put the gun in his pocket. “I’m sorry about the gun. I wouldn’t have shot you.”

Stromeyer nodded. “I knew that.”

Mr. Caldridge looked surprised. “How?”

Stromeyer opened the door for him. “The safety was on.”

29

ALVARADO CAME TO AND SAT UP IN A GROGGY HAZE. IT WAS black as pitch. His head throbbed something awful, and his vision was blurred. Walking anywhere was out of the question. He lay back down and fell asleep.

The next morning he walked into a tense camp. The passengers huddled next to one another on one side, the guerrillas on the other. Both groups eyed Luis with dread. He was busy beating a male passenger with his bare fists. The passenger lay on the ground, his body curled into a tight ball and his arms over his head to protect himself from the blows. Luis grew tired of punching and graduated to kicking the passenger with his steel-toed boots. It sounded like he was kicking a side of beef.

Alvarado sighed at this display of Luis’s usual inability to control himself. Luis looked up and spotted him. He stopped kicking.

“Where the hell have you been? And where are Jorge and Gordo?”

“They deserted,” Alvarado said.

“What? That’s not possible.” Luis was shocked. His best men.

“Leave off the passenger and let’s go in your tent. We need to talk.”

Luis delivered one more blow to the groaning man and stormed into his tent. Alvarado followed at a slower pace. Once in the tent, he delivered the news as quickly as he could.

“The diabetic man is dead, but the tall man escaped with the help of an English-speaking woman. I believe she was the one tracking us, not El Chupacabra. Jorge and Gordo were afraid to tell you this, so they attacked me and ran off.”

Luis stood, unmoving. The only sign that showed he’d heard Alvarado was the twitching in his left cheekbone.

“I will track that man down myself and kill him. Only after he is dead will my luck change.”

Alvarado wanted to pull his hair out at Luis’s ridiculous statement. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was the fact that Luis was partially correct. His luck on this venture had been bad, and it was getting worse by the day. Nevertheless, Alvarado reached for a way to placate Luis. In point of fact, things were not at a total loss, and they were so deep in the shit now, going deeper was the only alternative.

“He is one gringo and they were three men who cannot call themselves soldiers. Surely things are not that bad, Luis. We have the hostages still, and we have lost only two to the mines instead of the ten or fifteen that we expected.”

Luis looked at Alvarado, and for the first time Alvarado saw what might have been fear in his eyes.

“The Americans have dispatched a troop of special forces to find the passengers.”

Alvarado felt a cold chill run down his spine. He shook it off. “So? You said yourself that they will never find us. We know these mountains well. Not the gringos.”

“And I can’t raise Mathilde. I’ve tried several times, but she doesn’t respond.”

“What happened to them?”

Luis exploded. “How the hell do I know? I am pounding on the radio all night while you slept in the forest!”

“I was attacked, Luis. Perhaps you call our contact at the cartel. Maybe they have heard something.”

“I did.”

“Ah, good. And what did they say?”

“They say the Cartone cartel becomes nervous. The Americans are furious at the hijacking. They say that unless the passengers are released in twenty-four hours, aid to Colombia will stop and the American government will demand extradition of all cartel and paramilitary leaders.”

“Cartone is in jail, is he not? Didn’t he agree to lay down his arms under a nonextradition deal?”

Luis paced the length of the tent. “He did. His second in command says that he will never allow Cartone to be extradited. Now the other cartels are worried that the hijacking will force the president to offer up the rest of the leaders to the Americans as a peace offering. They have teamed up with the paramilitary groups to the west against us.”

“What are they planning?”

“To kill us! What the hell do you think?” Luis screamed.

Alvarado stood up. “If this is so, Luis, then we are on our own. We cannot fight them all.”

“We will fight them all, Alvarado. We have no choice. Don’t forget, we have the FFOC on our side. Or do you question their, and my, ability?” Luis’s mood had shifted in an instant.

Alvarado took a deep breath and tried to step lightly. “Of course not, Luis.”

“Then it does not matter that the other groups are angry. They are fools for believing the president and his offers of light sentences and no extradition.”

“But Maria, Mathilde. We must go there and see if they survived.”

Alvarado dated Maria but wanted Mathilde, who was Luis’s woman. He could live without Maria but would mourn the loss of Mathilde.

“Mathilde cannot be killed. That woman is a cat with nine lives.”

“So what do we do?”