What does it matter to you?
It had gotten to the point where he just didn't talk to the guerrillas and they didn't talk to him. Except for this morning. A few hours after dawn AAda had brought him breakfast, the usual slop. Silence was the normal routine, but this time she'd placed the tin at his feet and, out of the blue, asked the strangest question.
How old was your sister when she drowned?
It had so completely thrown him that, instinctively, he almost asked her to repeat it. But he was certain he'd heard her correctly. Who wants to know?
Your son. Now answer the question.
Seven, he replied.
Without another word, she turned and left.
Elation had been his immediate reaction. The videotape had been a good sign of progress, but this question from Nick was the first real confirmation that his family was in contact with his kidnappers. All along, his biggest fear had been that his wife and children wouldn't know whether he was dead or alive, and that not knowing would make their lives an even worse hell than his.
As the morning passed, the elation gave way to more complicated emotions. His sister's drowning had always been a very private matter, one he'd never even mentioned to his son. It disturbed him to know that Nick was aware of it, and he worried what, exactly, Nick had been told about the whole horrible incident. His mother had her version. The coroner had another. For Matthew the worst version of all was his own. Because it was the truth, and he'd seen it with the eyes of a five-year-old boy.
It was raining again. Heavy drops pattered loudly atop his canvas tarp. The pattering was softer in the background, a soothing sound of a light shower on the jungle canopy. He stared off to the middle distance, letting his mind escape this place. Part of him resisted, but he needed to go back to that rainy morning in the Florida Keys almost fifty years ago
Run, Stacy, run!
Matthew was struggling to get free, his drunken old man sprawled on the floor and pulling at his ankle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother rising from behind the couch, her nose bloodied. She lunged forward and kicked his father in the groin.
He yelped, but it had worked. Matthew was suddenly free. His mother wrestled his old man down the way he'd seen her do it so many times before. She held him in a contorted hammerlock with his left arm behind his back. His right arm she pulled straight down, between his legs, and out the back side like an inverted tail. Anytime he squirmed, she tugged, and he felt it right where it hurt most.
Go, kids! she shouted.
Matthew froze. His mother was a small woman, and he knew she couldn't hold a man as big and drunk as his father for long.
Mom, no!
I said, go! she shouted.
I'll kill you! his father growled. I'll kill every one of you bastards!
Take your sister and go! his mother shouted.
But, Mom!
She locked eyes with her son, her face straining with intensity. Listen to me, Matthew. Go right now! Go far away!
He didn't want to leave her, but he never disobeyed her. He grabbed his sister by the arm, and together they ran out the door. They raced down the stairs, across the lawn, and into the street. They were sprinting at full speed in the rain, Matthew leading his sister by the hand. Stacy was still wearing nothing but the diaper her father had forced on her as punishment.
Where are we going? she shouted, her voice shaking as they ran.
Away! he shouted. Mom said to go far away!
They were huffing and nearly out of breath as they turned down the wet, sandy road that led to the shore. Stacy was about to collapse as they reached the water.
Help me, said Matthew. He was pushing the little fishing boat into the water.
What are you doing?
We have to go far away. Mom said far away!
His feet sputtered in the sand. He pushed with all his strength, and finally the boat slid back into the water. The rain was falling harder.
Get in!
Stacy jumped into the seat up front. Matthew was in back, tugging at the starting cord on the little outboard motor.
Do you know what you're doing?
Mom showed me. One more tug and the engine started. He turned the throttle and the little boat roared away from shore.
Matthew, slow down!
We have to go far away! Mom said so!
The engine whined, the stern went down, and the bow rose as the boat headed straight into the gulf. The waves were beginning to crash. The rain and salty sea-splash pelted their faces.
Slow down! she shouted.
Matthew couldn't hear her. The wind was blowing harder, the engine straining just inches from his little ears. All he could hear was his mother's order. Go away! Go far away!
A loud crack rocked the boat, and the sudden jolt sent him tumbling forward over the seats. Stacy screamed as she sailed over the bow and into the sea. The boat continued on its own till Matthew got his bearings and killed the motor. He was alone in the boat.
Stacy! he cried.
He tried to stand, but a large wave knocked him over. He grabbed the engine and scalded his hand, but it kept him from being tossed overboard. He glanced back and saw the buoy bouncing in the waves, and he realized that the boat had hit it at full speed.
Stacy!
The storm was intensifying. The waves were now whitecaps, splashing into the boat. The sky had gone from gray to black. Sheets of rain were practically coming sideways, propelled by a chilly north wind. He stood at the back of the boat, his eyes searching frantically for any sign of his sister on the choppy surface.
Stacy, where are you!
He waited anxiously for her to shout back. He heard nothing, saw only wind, waves, and rain, rain. More rain. Nothing but rain
Matthew stared blankly into the jungle, numbed by his memories, chilled by the endless cold mountain rain. His face was soaked, partly from the leaky tarp, but mostly from the tears that thoughts of his painful past had unleashed.
Stacy's death had haunted him all his life. It had been an unspoken tension between him and his mother. Outwardly, she had always blamed her abusive husband. But another side had emerged with her Alzheimer's, her senseless but painful accusations that Matthew had killed his sister. He knew that it was the disease doing the talking, that she didn't really mean it. Still, one tragedy seemed to pile atop another in his life, all stemming from Stacy's drowning. It was his deep sense of guilt that had driven him to drink as a younger man, and it was the drinking that had led to the blowup with his own twelve-year-old son some fifteen years ago. One stupid fishing trip, way too much alcohol, and their relationship was changed forever.
He and Nick. Another tragedy at sea.
The wound on his head was throbbing again. He removed his soggy boot and rinsed the pus away with rainwater, wondering what his son would think of him now.
Chapter 49
We reached the Hotel Los Andes at ten minutes before three. No need to ask where the shared bathrooms were. I just followed my nose, literally.
The hotel was in the colonial barrio of La Candelaria, the oldest part of downtown BogotA. The heart of the area was Plaza de BolAvar, the original town center. Though the square itself was surrounded mostly by government buildings and modern architecture, the neighborhood to the east retained many old houses from the Spanish era. Some were restored and brightly painted, others dilapidated and on the verge of falling down. Scores had been converted into budget hotels that were popular with foreign travelers. Hotel Los Andes was on the lowest end of the spectrum. It hadn't seen a coat of paint in decades, and chunks of stucco had fallen from the walls. The roof was sagging, and those windows that weren't boarded up were covered with rusty iron security bars. A handwritten sign on the door offered rooms for the Colombian equivalent of about three American dollars a night. I didn't need to go inside to tell that it would have been a rip-off at any price.
We followed a narrow side street to the hotel's rear entrance. I carried the cash in a nylon backpack. Alex was at my side, armed with a concealed SIG-Sauer P228. Muggings happened every day in this area, but Alex assured me that anyone who made a play for my backpack was in for a nine-millimeter surprise between the eyes.
You nervous? she asked.
Should I be?
Just remember what I told you. There's nothing you can do here today that is going to get your father released. This is all about showing the kidnappers that we can follow instructions. No heroics. Just go inside, get the note, and do exactly what it tells you to do.
We stopped at the bathroom entrance. Behind us was the restaurant. Clanging kitchen noises filtered through the torn window screens. A sleeping drunk was on the doorstep, snoring. Sewage ran in a little stream from the bathroom to piles of garbage stacked high behind the restaurant. On a warm afternoon like this one, the mixture emitted a sweet, nauseating odor.
If I don't come out in five minutes, come in and get me.
I was going to give you two, she said.
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
I clutched the sack of money and entered the men's room. As the door slapped shut behind me, the immediate assault on my senses nearly knocked me off my feet. The place smelled like an open sewer. Along one wall was a trough urinal. It was clogged with paper and the scummy yellow-brown runoff from toilets that had overflowed. The wet floor had the same disgusting brown tint of watery feces. The lone sink was cracked and rust-stained. The wall above it showed the painted outline of a mirror that had evidently been stolen. In the back were showers for hotel guests. To my shock, two were actually occupied.
I walked cautiously toward five dirty white stalls. The first one was empty. Behind the closed door of the second I could hear a man struggling, presumably with his bowels. I stopped at the open door to stall number three, the one JoaquAn had designated for the drop-off. It had an old-fashioned toilet with a pull chain overhead. There was no toilet seat. The rim was splattered and filthy. Flies buzzed over the unflushed waste that had collected in the bowl.
One thought consumed me. What in the hell am I doing here? It made me realize, however, that I couldn't possibly imagine the conditions under which my father had been living. In accordance with the kidnappers' instructions, I closed the door and checked behind the tank.
There I found the envelope. I tore it open immediately. It was written in Spanish, but fortunately I could read my second language better than I could speak it.
Stacy was seven years old when she drowned, it read.
I read that first proof-of-life sentence twice, almost in disbelief. This was for real, I realized. My father was alive. I continued to the next paragraph: Slide the money under the divider to the stall on your left. Say nothing. Information about the release of Matthew Rey will arrive in ninety seconds. If you leave your stall before then, or if anyone follows the money, you will receive no further information.
To my left was stall number two, the same stall from which I'd heard noises on my way in. With a discreet glance I noticed a pair of feet beneath the divider. The groaner was here to take my money.
My mind raced with thoughts of who this person might be. Alex had told me that kidnappers used mules for transactions like these, neighborhood kids who would deliver drugs, pick up ransom money, or do just about anything else for a few pesos. They were extremely reliable. If they screwed up or tried to run off with the loot, their entire family would be slaughtered.
I held my backpack close to my chest, unable to move. I wanted to hop right over the flimsy partition that separated us and ask this stranger where my father was. But it would have been pointless. As Alex had said, the guy was surely a know-nothing mule.
I took a deep breath, leaned over, and slid the backpack underneath to the other stall. The stranger picked it up.
Instantly a wave of conflicting emotions ran through me, from hope that the money would keep my father alive to hatred of these bastards for all the grief they had caused. Somewhere in the mix was the visceral sensation that I'd just been robbed. Even though Alex had talked him down to a hundred thousand dollars, more than half of my entire net worth had just passed to a total stranger beneath the graffiti-covered walls of a bathroom stall.
Alone in the stench, I checked my watch and counted off the seconds until the promised arrival of further information. I heard the stranger's footsteps as he left, then the slamming of the bathroom door. Ninety seconds passed, and I heard nothing. I waited another fifteen and was beginning to feel scammed. I ran out of the stall and checked the one next to me. There was no sign of the stranger or of any forthcoming information. I raced outside and found Alex.
Did you see him walk out?
Who?
The guy with my money.
No one came out.
I heard a door slam. There must be another door!
Nick, don't try to follow!
In ninety seconds we were supposed to receive information about the final exchange. There's no one here!
I ran straight to the back. Sure enough, beyond the showers was another exit door. I opened it and froze, struck first by the noise and activity, struck second by the irony. I'd assumed that my money would be laundered. I'd had no idea that the Hotel Los Andes shared bathrooms with a busy Laundromat.