Betrayed (23 page)

“Buzzing! Evading! What I was trying to evade was being shot out of the air and not just by ground fire. Your colonel friend there is as trigger-happy as whoever those goons were on the ground.”

“And for that I really have to apologize, Joe."

Vicki spun around at the interruption. Only when she saw Bill did she realize that the pickup behind the Jeep wasn’t the army-green of the jeep but a lighter shade, and the WRC sponsor was the driver.

He hurried over. “I am so sorry! I’d expected to be on the airstrip to meet you, but my meeting with the base commander ran late. When word came there was trouble with an aircraft, I was afraid it was you. I filed the appropriate paperwork, but you’d think I’d been here long enough not to count on the changes getting down to people on the ground. Or in this case, air traffic control. Ms. Andrews, please accept my apology for this unfortunate welcome to our little community. I hope you won’t consider it indicative of what you’re going to encounter here. It isn’t.”

“Please don’t blame yourself, Mr. Taylor.” Michael turned and smiled at Bill. “It was just an unfortunate mix-up. No one was hurt, so all’s well that ends well.”

“That’s fine and grand, but have we forgotten the little matter of who shot at us? And that we’re currently under arrest?” Joe reminded in a hard voice. A dozen weapons were still leveled at him, the dark eyes above them as intent on the big American as so many mice watching a cat. “Camden, you want to tell your goons to at least point their toys elsewhere?”

Michael narrowed his eyes but said calmly, “You can be assured the situation will be thoroughly investigated. Your shooter was probably some poacher worried you’d caught sight of them.”

Turning to the UPN commander, he switched back to Spanish. “Coronel, let me congratulate you and your men for an excellent job. You executed the operation precisely as we rehearsed. This has been a profitable additional training exercise for your unit. But as you can see, there has been a misunderstanding in detaining these two.”

 Colonel Alpiro looked from Michael to his captives. “Then it is done.” Snapping his fingers, he shouted an order Vicki didn’t catch but which had the effect of lowering every weapon.

And with that it was over. Within moments men who’d been pointing lethal weapons at them were cheerfully lifting crates from the DHC-2 to the back of Bill’s pickup, the rest drifting back to their interrupted duties. The three American men and the colonel, joined now by the helicopter pilot, were in a huddle under the plane’s wing, inspecting the damage.

Only Vicki seemed to be still shaken by the incident. Was violence so much a part of these guys’ lives that it could just be shrugged off? She drifted away. This at least brought heads up, but when Vicki pointed toward the air control tower and mouthed restroom, they turned instantly back to their discussion.

A guard inside the control tower directed Vicki to a restroom that was far from clean but at least functional.

When she emerged, she turned into an alley running between the hanger and tower. The alley dead-ended in a narrow strip of trimmed vegetation that separated the runway from the uncleared rain forest beyond.

An armed sentry watched Vicki as she stepped out into the open, but he made no move to interfere.

In front of her reared a tangle of trees and vines and undergrowth, dark and alien and chill. The brisk wind had thickened to a mist that was not quite fog or rain but humid enough to bead on Vicki’s face and bare arms. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself to control her shivering.

I shouldn’t have come
. Vicki knew she was behaving badly. Yes, it had been a frightening few minutes. But she’d been in tight corners before, and it was over now. So why was her heart still racing, her stomach roiling with nausea?

She’d had a similar reaction once in Sri Lanka when their aid convoy was stopped on a mountain pass by government troops. The altitude, the cold, wet,
green
rain forest smell, and the shouting soldiers had precipitated a panic that startled and shamed Vicki, since for all their sternness, the government troops had shown the aid workers nothing but courtesy.

But this was worse—the pounding boots so terrifying, the smell of smoke so real, the tangle of vegetation so dark and cold, it was as though Vicki were fighting her way out of some forgotten nightmare instead of what actually lay around her.

Maybe I am
.

Vicki let her hands slide slowly from the cold flesh of her upper arms. Maybe that was exactly what she was experiencing. Hadn’t Evelyn said her birth parents had taken Vicki and Holly to live in a highland Mayan village? Probably in surroundings much like these. Maybe even in these same mountains.

And somewhere in this mountain range her birth parents had died. According to that death report, a local army unit had brought the bodies in to the embassy. Had they brought two surviving children as well? Was it possible Vicki’s unreasoning distaste for mountains and forest that so annoyed Holly, the panicky racing of her heart every time she saw an army uniform, the images of running boots and leaping flames that matched no conscious remembrance, were no imagination but real happenings? Happenings traumatic enough to impact Vicki, even while remaining buried in the fog of her past but not a much younger Holly?

If only I could remember. Why can’t I remember?

Well, Vicki couldn’t change a past she couldn’t even remember. But she could do something about the present.

A worn footpath leading across the perimeter strip into the rain forest indicated Vicki wasn’t the first to take this shortcut between the hanger and tower.

Crossing the open ground quickly, Vicki allowed the underbrush to close around her. Here she could no longer see the runway or army base, and ahead the path curved to disappear into the vegetation, leaving her alone in a world of green. Standing still, Vicki quieted the panic welling up in her.
Let go of the past. Let go of the prejudices. Just look at it objectively the way it really is
.

Vicki turned a slow circle. Next to the path arched the perfect curve of a giant fern, the droplets of moisture that beaded its feathery lace catching the light to refract the jeweled spectrum of a rainbow. A wisp of fog coiled through pines and broad-leaf hardwoods, and above her the mist had now become the lightest of rain.
Chipi-chipi
. The word came to Vicki from nowhere. The constant drizzle that kept the cloud forest so green.

How did I know that?

Just ahead a stream bubbled across the path to spill down an embankment. The stepping stones across the stream looked slippery with moss so Vicki went no farther. She listened instead to a noisy scolding above her. Tilting her head back, she glimpsed a wrinkled fury face among the tangle of vines and leaves. It was joined briefly by another larger one before both disappeared. A baby howler monkey and its mother. Among the trees Vicki caught a flash of bright feathers. The fabled quetzal bird? And here beyond reach of the airport’s diesel fumes, the moist scent of the vegetation was fragrant and suddenly—astonishingly—familiar.

I’ve been here before. At least in these mountains. And it isn’t ugly and dark. It’s so beautiful. No wonder Holly loved it. No wonder my father wanted to come here.

Vicki brushed back the lilac and cream and orange velvet of a cascade of orchids curling down from a tree branch.
This really was my father’s world. I remember now. I remember singing that song. I was playing. I was . . . I was happy. And then . . . ?

The sudden pang of joy evaporated as Vicki strained to remember, the beauty of her surroundings dimming. Her heart began to race again.

Then what happened?

Chapter Eighteen

“Vicki?”

Vicki whirled around, her hand going to her throat. She’d been so lost in another world it was as though the voice—masculine, sharp, and American—was calling to her from across the years.

Then Vicki reoriented herself to the present. She’d been gone longer than she’d planned, and someone had come looking for her. She realized that her face was wet, though she didn’t remember crying. Hastily, she mopped at her face as she heard footsteps approaching. What kind of a wreck must she look?
Get a grip.

“There you are.” Bill stepped around a tree trunk into the opening on the path. “I was concerned you were lost. We’re ready to move out.” His eyes darkened as he took in Vicki’s damp face. “Are you all right? You weren’t hurt back there?”

“No, I’m fine, really. Maybe a little shaken up.” Bill still looked worried so Vicki went on hurriedly, indicating her surroundings. “It’s just—it’s all so beautiful, it . . . it got to me. The sounds. The smells. It brought back memories I didn’t even know I had.”

“Memories?” Bill said. “Then you’ve been here before?”

“Apparently.” Vicki hastily downplayed her slip. “Not necessarily here. But somewhere in these mountains. Close enough this seems very familiar. Though I would have been so young at the time, I’m not sure what’s real and what’s imagination.”

At his expression, Vicki knew she’d have to explain fully. “I was born here in Guatemala. My birth father was an American photojournalist working down here, and my parents were killed somewhere in these mountains. Or so I’ve been told. But—” Her gaze drifted back around the tangle of trees, ferns, and vines, the orchids and rush of water across the path. “Something in all this sure strikes a chord.”

“Your parents were Jeff and Victoria Craig?" Bill’s expression went as blank as his tone but not before she glimpsed shock. “The American couple killed up here twenty years back?”

“You knew them?”

“I knew of them, certainly. Any expat with contacts in Guatemala at the time knew the case. Is that why you’re here? And is that why you’re pursuing Holly’s death so hard? Because you think there’s a connection?”

It was a thought that had never even occurred to Vicki. “No, not at all. Holly didn’t even know about it. I . . . I just found out myself when I came down here.”

She explained briefly and reluctantly. “It really is just a coincidence. Strange though, isn’t it? Do you think it’s possible I was up in these very mountains?”

“Anything’s possible,” Bill said flatly. “Though one of these valleys is much like another. Now—are you done here? We do need to move out.”

Vicki caught his glance at his watch. “I’m sorry for holding you up.”

She’d been lost in the past for longer than she’d thought. Except for a handful of sentries, the airstrip was deserted when they emerged into the open, the cargo loaded neatly into the pickup and tied down under a tarp. Vicki looked around for Joe and Michael. She should thank Joe, who for all the cool censure that seemed to accompany every exchange between them, had at least delivered her—and the plane—here in one piece.

As for Michael, that he’d so quickly rearranged his own schedule proved he really was pursuing Holly’s death. She would like to express her appreciation—and find out if there was any news.  

“Joe asked me to make his apologies for the rough landing,” Bill said. “Alpiro took him and Camden back up in the helo to see if Joe could pinpoint the exact ground area from which you were shot. He said to let you know your things are in the backseat. Camden asked me to make his excuses as well. He expects to catch up with you over at the center today if this investigation into the shooting moves quickly. If not, tomorrow.”

So she hadn’t just been forgotten. The warmth of that chased away the last chill and unease so that Vicki could take in the last leg of her trip with interest. This was over a dirt road so rutted and uneven it clearly carried more pedestrian and cart traffic than motor vehicles. At first the track followed the airstrip, where Vicki spotted a group of Mayan women sweeping for debris with hand-bound straw brooms. Their male counterparts chopped brush along the runway and base perimeter. Armed guards—army, not UPN, by their fatigues—stood watch over their labor.

Then the tarmac gave way to small plots of corn and beans and larger plantings that were coffee bushes. Here too Mayan highlanders labored with wooden hoes and machetes. The pickup passed a woman carrying firewood on her back, a boy prodding a donkey piled high with bundles.

“This plateau is actually within the Sierra de las Minas biosphere.” Bill eased his cargo over hillocks of dried mud so carefully that Vicki could have walked faster. “As you can see, it’s suffered its share of human impact. But this at least is the last human settlement before what we call the nuclear reserve, one reason WRC chose to locate here.”

Bill indicated the steep, green folds over which the DHC-2 had dropped. Below on the plateau, the human impact was more visible as the road became the main street of a village. Under the shade of citrus trees and banana palms, Mayan women pounded corn into flour, tended cook fires, scrubbed clothing in metal basins. Toddlers scampered around the beaten-earth yards while older children looked up with solemn, dark eyes as the pickup jolted by.

It was all a familiar scene to Vicki. The life of a rural village in any number of the developing world cultures.

What was not familiar was the impression of an armed camp. There had been soldiers overseeing work crews among the coffee plantings. The pickup had already passed through two military checkpoints, and even in the center of the village there were men patrolling and doing sentry duty on the steps of a squat cathedral with a single bell tower.

“The lake down there is Izabal, the largest freshwater body in Guatemala. This town is called Verapaz, after this entire mountain range.” Bill braked to avoid a speeding army Jeep. “Named and built by the army, as you may have guessed, as part of their model village program.”

He expanded, “The model village, or ‘strategic hamlet’ as they were also called, was part of the army’s rural pacification program during the civil war. A highly effective one too. Build a town center outside an army base. Then bring the survivors in from all the farms and destroyed villages around and give them a home.”

“That seems kind,” Vicki said doubtfully. “I guess you hear so much about army abuse, but you never really hear of anything good they might have done.”

“The reconstruction money came from international aid organizations. From the army’s point of view, it’s just plain smart. Move a hostile population to where you can keep an eye on them and have a convenient work force as well. Beans and bullets, the program was called. The concept was if you cooperated, you got food and shelter. If not—well, that was the bullet part.”

Vicki took another look at the cathedral. Only now did she take in a crack that ran down the bell tower, then in a jagged diagonal across the front of the building. Closer scrutiny revealed other cracks and patches of missing facade that had been painted over. There was no bell.

Bill’s glance took in her interest. “The church foundation shifted somewhat after construction. The army blames an earthquake. The locals mutter about the hired architect, who retired to the capital’s Zone 10 after his involvement in the reconstruction efforts.”

A third roadblock marked the end of the village, a soldier running forward to raise the bar as he recognized Bill’s pickup.

Vicki looked back to see the bar drop back into place. “It doesn’t look like that big of a town.”

“Yeah, well,” Bill said dryly, “there weren’t a lot of survivors.”

It was the opening Vicki had been looking for. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask about that. Why is everything so militarized here? Not just back then, but now? You’d think they were preparing for an invasion, except they’re up here in the middle of nowhere. And that new Environmental Protection Unit—I don’t really see much difference between them and the army.”

As though to punctuate her statement, a Huey roared overhead, flying in low toward the army base. Joe and Michael heading back? It conjured up an unpleasant image of that deadly machine gun facing her from the open Huey door.

“I mean, isn’t this a lot of overkill for patrolling a national forest? Whatever happened to some nice park rangers with a guide book?”

“That’s because you’re thinking like an American,” Bill said. “In Guatemala the army’s main purpose has always been maintaining internal law and security, functions that belong to the police back home. In fact, the police have traditionally been the eyes and ears and hands of the military. As to why here, I don’t know how much you know about local politics, but the Guatemalan army has considered itself at war within its own borders for at least the last fifty years. These mountains were a hotbed of guerrilla fighting.”

Michael had said as much. With some hesitation Vicki asked, “Is it true that the Americans put the military into power down here? And armed and trained them all these years? I just don’t get why."

When no response came, Vicki turned her head.

Bill looked troubled, his gnarled hands tight on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead as though staring into some distant past. The road made a turn that dropped the roadblock out of sight before he let out a sigh. “You’ve got to understand it’s easy to look back and point fingers. At the time it wasn’t quite so black and white. Not even with Arbenz."

“You were here with Arbenz?” Vicki studied him curiously. Had the elderly expatriate maybe been in the military? “But—that was more than fifty years ago.”

“I was new and young, to be sure. The point is, back then all we saw was a beautiful country, full of opportunities—and available land.

“Even the United Fruit Company—it’s popular now to make them the scapegoat. But from their point of view, they were helping build a modern nation. Oh yes, they were making huge profits for themselves. But they also built schools and clinics and roads and at least offered better treatment and wages than the local aristocracy.

“That may be, but what about human rights and working conditions. And the Mayans—all those the massacres and ‘
desaparecidos
’ I keep hearing about? Was that all an exaggeration?

“No. That was . . . regrettable. But you can’t grow an economy without stability. And there was a lot of instability. Let me tell you, there were plenty of ordinary, decent-minded people—including expats—who considered army control, iron-fisted though it might be, an acceptable exchange for anarchy.”