As disgusting as the goo around me is, I have to stand if I’m going to have any hope of getting away. So I plant my hands on the grimed-up ground and stand on wobbly legs. And come face to face with a uniformed stranger.
He recoils.
Can you blame him?
Eau de Dead Dog is bad.
My hope tries to rally, but considering my circumstances, it droops again. “You didn’t come to tell me you found the kid who stole my purse, did you?”
The officer shakes his head.
“Or my purse, right?”
“Sorry,
señorita
. I don’t have your handbag.” He takes a couple of steps away. “The hotel called to report the situation. I’m here to ask some questions.”
Looks like cops everywhere operate out of the same rule-book. “I suppose you need to take me to the police station for a statement, right?”
“Your
cooperación
is needed, miss.”
That’s when the brainstorm hits—or prior experience, bad, of course, instructs. “I can ask for embassy help, can’t I?”
He nods. “Of course. And we can certainly escort you there. We’ll ask you questions with an embassy person present. We see no problem with that.”
And before I can ask for a chance to clean up, something I desperately need, but after he does give me a second to put my weapon—er, shoe—back on, he bundles me into a cop car and we zip down the narrow streets of the colonial neighborhoods to a more modern area. In a daze, I follow my escort to a plain room at the embassy building, and there, with a Mr. Sloan at my side, the police ask me the same kind of questions Chief Clark would have asked had this happened back in Louisville. Between questions, I pick off carrot peelings, soggy paper, and some questionable yellow-brown stuff that reeks. But then again, everything about me stinks right now.
By the time I’ve recounted my evening’s events at least three times, the gloppy garbage bedecking me has begun to dry into hard crusts, making them easier to remove. Unfortunately, the stench hasn’t decreased one smidgen. Then my foot begins to itch. Yeah, the one that landed in the ooze from the trash.
I kick off the shoe I’d wielded and try to scratch with the chic, pointy toe of the goo-free shoe. No go.
As I grow twitchier, I dart glances at Mr. Sloan. He gets the picture by my fourth glare. He stands.
“I believe,” the middle-aged embassy operative says, “we’ve gone over this information enough times. You would agree with me that any more questions you might have for Miss Adams can be asked at a later time. I’m sure you understand her desire for a bath and clean clothes.”
At that, the officer can’t apologize enough. Once he’s gone, I thank Mr. Sloan. “I thought I was going to lose what’s left of my mind.”
He chuckles. “They’re trying to be thorough. The current president is known for his anti-crime stance.”
I sigh. “If that’s the case, I sure hope his police can find my purse. I’ll be needing that missing passport in a couple of days.”
“Your best option is to start the process to get you an emergency passport. We can expedite things, but it will still take a few days.”
“Great.” I run a hand through my short hair but encounter a crusted bunch glommed flat against the left side of my head. Grossed out, I wipe my hand against my ruined skirt. “What do I have to do to speed things up?”
We arrange to get together again before I leave to meet Mr. Cruz in the morning. “Can you help me call a cab? I need a shower in the worst way.”
Mr. Sloan’s brown eyes twinkle. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t deny that last part.”
I laugh. “And you’re not even the one carrying the stink of Eau de Dead Dog around with her.”
The middle-aged man laughs, then shakes his head. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.” Then he grows serious. “As far as getting you back to the hotel, I’ll see about getting one of our military police officers to drive you there. A beautiful young woman shouldn’t be getting into a cab alone in Colombia. Certainly not at night. Let’s go check with the duty officer out front.”
And here it turns out that when I jumped into Pedro’s cab I’d taken my life in my hands in more ways than one. Who’d a thunk?
We start down the long, silent hallway. My gross shoes’ high heels echo eerily in the cavernous space. As we reach the entrance, another set of footsteps rings out. When I turn out of curiosity, I can’t swallow my gasp.
“Marcos!” I cry before I realize what I’m doing.
I mean, what girl wants to draw the attention of a gorgeous man like Senator Rivera when she’s wearing produce well on its way to reverting to primordial ooze? But the deed is done.
He peers at me, then his eyes widen with shock. Do you blame him?
“Andrea? Is that you?”
“In all my stinky glory.” Best to make as much of a joke as I can out of the outrageous situation. “For your nose’s sake, you won’t want to come too close.”
His nostrils flare as he approaches the effluvium. One does, though, have to give the man credit for impeccable manners. He waves my concern away. “Is there anything I can do to help? What happened?”
I dish up the digest version of my dining experience as Mr. Sloan ducks through the metal detector setup to speak with the uniformed man at the desk.
As I reach the end of my tale of woe, he comes back to our side. “I’ve arranged to have one of our guys drive you back to the hotel.”
“You don’t need to bother anyone,” Marcos says. “I’ll be happy to take Miss Adams. It’s not far out of my way home.”
“Oh, you don’t really want this”—I wave down the length of my clothes—“in any car you’ll drive again. I’m sure an embassy vehicle will be easy to clean.”
“I have leather seats. What can be easier?”
For a moment, I dither. Do I really want to head out to the hotel at the side of one of those strangers that have recently thronged around me? But then I remember his business card. And the guy had just walked out of an office in the U.S. embassy. Plus, Mr. Sloan knows I’m with him. I don’t think he’s dumb enough to do away with me tonight.
Here goes nothing. “Only if we keep the windows down, okay?”
He laughs, and we both leave the safety of the embassy. The trip back to the Hotel de la Opera is uneventful, and Marcos and I discuss the theft. He bemoans the high level of crime in his country. Since I’m not heavily into politics, I turn the conversation toward the beautiful old hotel.
“The older one of the two buildings,” he tells me, “was once Simón Bolívar’s headquarters.”
My eyes nearly pop. “Are you telling me I’ve been walking on the same tiles the famous liberator of practically half of South America walked on?”
“Of course.”
“Wow!”
“I’m sure you can visit George Washington’s Mount Vernon. It would be no different there.”
“I suppose you’re right. But this is so . . . so
foreign
.”
He laughs. “It’s foreign only to foreigners.”
“You have a point.” I begin to relax. “How come you speak such excellent English? It seems all my years of high school Spanish decided to stay back in high school. It sure isn’t helping me here.”
“I attended an American school here in Bogotá, and then college in Washington, DC. Afterward, I returned to study law at the university here.”
“How’d you get from law school to the Senate?”
Marcos spends the rest of the drive to the hotel telling me stories of his time as a new attorney, and then of his political start. I have to keep from pinching myself. This kind of thing only happens in movies, not to me.
Not the super gross or the super cool.
If it weren’t for the pervasive miasma of rot, I would think I’ve been plunked into a romantic movie. Then again, the stench belongs in a horror flick.
Before I know it, we’re at the hotel. I thank Marcos for his kindness, we say goodbye, and I head for the front desk. There, I get a new room key, and then hurry through the thankfully empty lobby. Up the stairs, and I’m outside my room. I slip the key into the lock, but then hesitate.
The windows. Those huge openings I liked so much when I first saw them. Only now does it occur to me to wonder about their safety. True, there was that grille on the little balcony, but really. What self-respecting creep would be deterred by something so surmountable? Besides, a simple door lock was all that latched the windows shut.
And I can’t remember whether I latched them before dinner.
“Aw . . . come on! Don’t be such a sissy.” I open the door, flick on the light, and hold my breath. “Hello?”
I figure if someone’s out to get me, they’ll probably rush me right now and get it over with. But nothing happens. I don’t even get a breeze from the windows. When I look that way, I breathe a sigh of relief. I did lock them before I headed down to dinner.
But there’s still the bathroom and its matching door to check out.
My pulse kicks up, and I fight down the rising fear. I have to make sure no one’s hiding in the enormous claw-foot tub. Or inside the linen closet. In the corner behind the door.
I catch sight of myself in the room’s mirror and cringe. I look more like Marcos should have dropped me off at the nearest homeless shelter than here at a super-luxurious hotel. The fear burns in my eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask my reflection. “Here you’re looking for a burglar, and you’re scaring yourself with one crummy scenario after the other. What sane woman would do that to herself?”
No answer.
So I give the answer business a whirl. “Then again, who ever said I was sane?”
Yep, folks. I’ve really gone off the deep end. Now I’m asking myself questions. And I’m even answering.
I turn on the bathroom light and sigh in relief. Although there are potential hiding places here, the room’s empty. So, unwilling to spend another moment in my grody garments, I strip, turn on the hot water, and spend the next half hour scrubbing. I soap up. Twice. Three times.
By the time I’ve shampooed yet another time, I feel ready to consider sleep. My skin tingles from all the friction, but at least I know I no longer stink. A thick slick of body lotion plus clean pajamas later, and I’m ready to crash.
What a day. It’s time to call it a night.
I crawl under the blankets, Bible in hand. But I can’t concentrate on reading, not even God’s Word. So I close the leather cover and call out to the Lord.
After my “amen,” I turn off the light and hunker down to sleep. The minute I close my eyes, a thought strikes. Did I lock the door when I came into the room? Not the automatically latching lock, but the bolt and even the little chain thingies.
Probably. It’s not something I’d be likely to forget.
And I’m so tired.
Of course I locked the door.
But the more I try to tell myself I locked up, the more uncertain I become. Finally, with a groan, I jump out of bed and hurry to the door. Sure enough, the latch is bolted and the chain’s in place.
I can sleep in peace.
Back in bed, I snuggle under the crisp, clean sheets. Ah . . .
The windows. I know they’re not wide open, but did I ever throw that lock? Before dinner. I didn’t even check when I got back. I saw them closed and left it at that.
“Come on, Andie. Of course you locked up before you went to dinner. You don’t ever forget to do something like that.”
Again, I grow more anxious the more I try to tell myself to go to sleep. “Aaaargh!”
I drag myself out of bed again, then head to the windows. This time, my heart leaps to my throat. I hadn’t locked the doors. I take the time to make sure both of the ones in the bedroom are latched, and then I head to the bathroom. That door is locked.
The lecture I give myself goes a ways toward calming me. Maybe now I’ll go to sleep. So I try again.
Riiing, riiing!
The cell phone. Who would be calling at this hour?
I sigh and fumble in the dark. “Hello?”
“Are you ready to admit I was right?” Max says, barely leashed anger in his tight voice.
Lord? Do I really need this? Now?
“Hi, Max. How’s your evening going? Lovely, I hope. Mine was interesting, but I chalk it up as part of the experience of foreign travel. At least I’ve gotten my fair share of crime while abroad out of the way. Everything is hunky-dory now.”
“Your fair share!” The leash on his anger has just loosened. “Murders in Asia and purse-snatching in South America? That’s enough for a whole continent’s worth of travelers. Of course, you need a babysitter. So don’t you argue with me. I’m coming.”
The memory of my encounter with the petty thief in that back alley rushes at me with the oomph of a runaway rhino. Maybe I do need help. Just not from a heavy-handed, overbearing, testosterone-poisoned babysitter.
“Don’t you dare, Max Matthews. You stay where you are, and I’ll stay where I am. With God’s help, I’ll handle anything that comes my way.”
“Faith is one thing, Andie. Bullheaded stubbornness is another.”
“I’m not bullheaded.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Am not.”
“Quit the grade-school routine. I care about you and don’t want to get a body bag back at the end of your trip.”
His graphic comment gives me a moment’s pause. I pray. Then, “Max, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve already set things in motion to get my passport replaced. I contacted Miss Mona about the network’s credit card right away—as you too obviously know, and I’m going to negotiate the emerald buy tomorrow. By the time you make arrangements to get down here, I’ll be back in Louisville.”
“Just keep your room door locked. I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Are you deaf—”
Before I can finish my question, he’s hung up. Fine. He can visit Colombia. By the time he gets here, since you can hardly book a transcontinental flight for the next morning, I’ll be home.
It’ll serve him right. Arrogant male . . .
And I’ve been entertaining the thought of a relationship with
him
? How can I be so . . . so . . . I don’t know. But I know I’m going to have to think long and hard about it. I mean, can I live long term with that kind of pressure? Not being able to go anywhere without having my competence questioned?
I don’t think so.