Coffee (40 page)

Gunshots
blasted at the door where she’d entered. An image of her
bullet-ridden corpse lying in a pool of blood on the cold cement
returned a rush of frantic energy. To her right, a wide ramp led up
to a ground level bulkhead door. She ran to it, and unlatched a
rusty bolt. She pushed up enough to lunge through. The door
crashed down behind her, alerting a swarm of guards.

Thick
jungle-like underbrush beckoned. She dived in, clawing at the
tangle of vines. Within seconds, her arms and legs stung from
bloody gashes. She tripped, and fell face first into a grainy mound
of earth. Thousands of black segmented ants poured over her, as she
realized the mound was not dirt at all, but a nest of insects
feeding on a rotting fruit. She screamed and tore at her own face
to remove them, some sinking their pincers into her soft cheeks.
They scattered in waves across her body, some escaping into her
collar and down her shirt.

Etty
lost control, screaming wildly. Soon she felt hands pulling at her
ankles, dragging her back into the clearing. She ignored the
frenzied barking and shouting while she continued to swat away the
insects. Once out of the bush, she stood and tore off her shirt,
exposing skin dotted with black ants. She whipped the shirt on
herself, front and back, slapping her skin and bra. She turned away
from the staring men to see if any had gone under her underwear.

The
men surrounded her, and kept the dogs at bay. They watched as she
returned the now buttonless shirt to her back, and clutched her arms
around herself. Brown blotches of dirt covered her face. She stared
out at the men, eyes flaming with fear, counting the seconds to her
certain death. Only her own rapid panting broke the silence.

Milpeau
arrived and broke through the circle. He shushed away the others,
and took Etty softly by the arm. He led her to his waiting jeep.
He waved at the milling guards to follow, and sped up the road.
Neither talked as they bounced along. Etty nursed the gashes on her
arms, and rubbed her face to count the small bites.

Milpeau
seemed despondent. “Milpeau?” she asked. No
acknowledgment. “You will have to kill me, won’t you.”
Still no reaction. Milpeau turned into her bungalow, stepped out,
and guided Etty to the front door. Two jeeps followed, packed with
guards, who spilled out over the drive. Milpeau gestured them
toward various stations around the house, and then entered with
Etty.

Anna
rushed up. “Ohh, Ittie! What has happened!” She
scowled at Milpeau. “What have you done!”

“I
will be back for her this evening. She is not to leave the
building. The guards have orders to shoot on sight,” he said,
not looking at either woman.

Anna
shooed him away. “You leave us. Get out!” Milpeau
left willingly. Then Anna turned to Etty. “Oh my dear. You
poor girl. What have they ever done to you.” She grabbed
Etty’s arm and started leading her up the stairs. She yelled
back toward the kitchen. “Cata! Hot soup! Glass of brandy!
Right away!”

She
huffed angrily when seeing the torn buttons. “Animals!”
Etty offered little resistance to Anna removing all her dirt
smeared clothes. She wrapped her in a warm cotton robe, and sat her
down in a soft chair. Then she started a bath, and collected
bandages and antiseptic from a cabinet. “You bathe, and then
I will tend to your wounds. Milpeau will hear more from me on
this.”

Etty
debated what to tell this devoted servant. To say too much might
jeopardize the woman’s safety. Soon the bath brimmed with
steaming foam. Anna pulled her in with the determination of a
mother with a sick child. Etty obeyed, appreciating a caring hand.
Anna spoke in soothing tones as she rubbed her back with a sponge.

Anna’s
mothering touch, and the glorious ocean side room, provided some
comfort. But, like a current running under the sun lit bay, she
feared for her life as never before. After the bath, she dismissed
Anna, then walked to the balcony with the pager pen. She entered the
code sequence three times in a row, holding it high over her head as
it fired off its rescue message - irrationally feeling that the
added height might increase the chances of it being heard. She put
on her old jeans, not wanting any more of the Brazilian prints. She
lay down on the bed, face first, clutching the pen - her only
remaining hope. For the first time since her first horrible morning
at Global Growers, she wept. She kept her head firmly in the pillow
to muffle the soft whimpers.

- Chapter Twenty Three -

Bryce
arrived first in Nogales Arizona, Monday morning on an early bus.
He stayed clear of border officials, choosing to park himself at a
table near the front of a murky windowed tavern where he could keep
an eye on the street. A parade of Mexicans and Americans passed in
each direction, one heading across the border, and one back. Their
attire ranged from dusty-shoeless to pressed-expensive. He studied
the many bus windows, searching for Warren’s wide shoulders
and big head.

Around
noon, he spotted him, standing next to a nearly demolished Chevy
truck, paying the driver some money. With a long sigh, Bryce felt a
heavy burden pour from his lungs. “You made it, you actually
made it,” he said, shaking his head. If it weren’t for
his unique size and shape, Bryce wouldn’t have recognized this
ragged traveler to be his friend. He still wore the baseball cap,
but his clothes were now caked with dirt and torn in multiple
places. Warren completed his transaction, then walked toward the
tavern. He stepped with a pronounced limp, grimacing each time he
pushed off his left leg.

Soon,
Warren pulled up a dented wooden chair to Bryce’s table. “I’d
hug you, but ... .”

“But
I wouldn’t let you.” Bryce reached out and shook his
hand heartily. “What the hell did you do? You look terrible!”

“I
know.” Warren looked down at himself. He chipped off a hunk
of crusty mud and studied it. “I think this is shit.”

“Why
don’t you taste it to be sure.... Warren, what happened? You
hurt your leg, you ripped your clothes. You were supposed to take a
bus! Did someone recognize you?”

“That
would be better than the truth. I was spooked.” He look to
see if others listened. “Murder charges, my picture all over
the papers. I could feel a posse of gun slinging Texas Rangers
behind every turn. Your bus idea was killing me. All those people
staring at me. I had a little kid come up to me and ask me
something - hell I was even convinced
he
was on to me.”

“And?”

“Well,
I decided hitch hiking would be safer. One family, one car, less
people to worry about.”

Bryce
finished off his beer and nodded to the waitress for service.
“Standing on the highway with your thumb out isn’t
exactly alone.”

“I
did pretty well, had a couple of long rides.”

“Get
to the good part.”

“Yea,
well, I kind of fell off one of the trucks.”

Bryce
slapped the table, laughing. “You what?”

Warren
looked around hoping no one would tune in. “It was a beater
truck. He took a side road. I was in the back with my butt on the
corrugated truck bed, ridges sticking up my ass. Somehow I dozed
off - he hit a big bump. I rammed into the rear gate, and sheared
the latches clean off. I hit the ground and rolled, right into a
ditch. Damn near broke bones.”

The
waitress arrived. Bryce ordered, “We’ll take two
bottles of Carta Blanca, and a shot of whiskey for my father here.”

“Asshole,”
Warren said after she left. “You think it’s funny being
left in a ditch, and walking about 10 miles to the nearest highway?”

Bryce
laughed even harder. “You mean, you fell off and the guy
didn’t even notice?” He bent over, howling.

Warren
rolled his eyes.

“I’m
giving you a hard time. Actually Warren, you couldn’t have
had a better disguise if you tried. Look at you! That truck
probably saved your life. I’m serious. This place is
crawling with migrant workers, and field hands. You fit in
perfectly. The Police are looking for a successful bond trader who
recently earned millions in commission.”

The
beers arrived. Warren guzzled nearly half of his, then shot back
the whiskey. “Ahhh... I’ve been dreaming about this
moment.”

“You’re
amazing, Warren, no doubt about it.” Bryce’s face
filled with compassion. “Now we have to get to Mexico.”

They
ate some tortillas, beans, and rice, and polished off a pitcher of
ice water each. They settled the bill, and walked into the street.
The border crossing building spread six gates wide, with two
pedestrian booths on one side. Cars and trucks crawled along, fifty
to eighty per queue. A line of people also waited, carrying
assortments of bags and children, some pushing shopping carts.
Warren speculated, “Looks like maybe an hour or more wait.
What’s the plan?”

“Don’t
know yet. I think I’ll call the office and see what’s
brewing.” Bryce found a phone booth and dialed Brooke
Jackson. A few moments later, “Hi Brooke!”

“Bryce!
Are you in Brazil?”

“No.
You get more emergency codes from Etty?”

“Oh,
thank God. I thought you were in even more trouble. Yea, must be
your Bishop friend - we got three more emergency transmissions a few
hours ago, right in a row.”

“From
Brazil? The same place?”

“Yup,
still in the middle of Clorice Coffee. Something must be up.”

Bryce
chewed on a fingernail. “Sounds like she’s in trouble.
What else, what have you heard?”

“Only
that Lange would like to use your scalp as a hood ornament.”

“That’s
about all he’d get - I’m bald now.”

“Bald?
I don’t want to know. I’ve been up here in the computer
lab watching for your call. I was starting to wonder if you were
still with us.”

“I’m
fine and dandy. I better be going, I’ll call ....”

Brooke
interrupted, suddenly alarmed. “Bryce! Someone’s on our
line! I’m watching the monitor, you’ve been tracked!”

“How!”

“Race
code, BIN TALT,” Brooke blurted and hung up.

Bryce
slammed down the receiver. “Warren, remember this - ‘bin
talt.’ Now lets GO!” Bryce ran into the street.

Warren
tagged along, repeating the strange word. “What’s ‘bin
talt’? What happened?”

Bryce’s
voice vibrated with the steps of his running. “It’s a
phone number, I’ll tell you later. We have about a minute to
get across that border before they close it up. They traced me, and
they’ll figure on a border crossing. Com’on!”

They
arrived at the end of the daunting line. Bryce scanned the scene,
and noticed a group of bicyclists on their way across. “Hand
me some more of your money.”

Warren
reached into his back pocket where he now had money simply wadded,
having long lost his coat and bag. The bills waved in the wind as
they ran. “Here, take half.” He handed over two straps
of hundreds.

Bryce
ran up to a group of bicyclists, dressed in tight spandex and air
resistant helmets. “Who wants to sell their bike - quick!”
He held out a stack of hundreds. The riders looked at each other,
unmoved. Bryce was counting out some more when a voice came from a
stationwagen in line next to them. An overweight lady in a sweaty
T-shirt spoke up. “Hey, you can have ours!” He looked
over and saw a couple of dented antiques hanging on the back.
Before Warren could respond, Bryce already had one off and the other
close behind. Warren shrugged and threw a few hundreds through the
window. The lady held the bills and giggled hysterically, followed
by a chorus of cheers from the rest of her chubby family.

The
two men peeled down the outside of the walking line, passing
everyone, until they turned and cut in front of the family standing
on deck. Bryce answered their scowls with, “Official business
- FBI. You’ll have to let us pass.” By the way they
looked up and down, especially at Warren’s dirt coated
clothes, it was obvious they had difficulty believing him. They
could see into the large windows in the main building at the end of
the line of booths. A commotion had started. Uniformed officials
scattered through their room, each grabbing a phone. Booth
attendants simultaneously answered their phones. The people in
front of Bryce and Warren moved on, just as the phone rang in the
booth. The attendant reached for it, but too late before Warren’s
large hand reached in and swatted the receiver, knocking it off the
carriage. The man was about to protest, when Warren interrupted.
“Did you see the size of that cockroach! Wow, didn’t
know they came that big.”

The
border guard pointed at Warren, “You get your hands out of my
booth! That’s a Federal offense, Sir!” While he
yelled, Warren fumbled with the phone, putting it back like an
embarrassed child, while he unobtrusively unclicked the wire from
the back, and placed it under the phone so it still appeared
connected.

“Sorry,
really, don’t know what came over me.”

While
the guard focused on Warren, Bryce’s hands darted into the
booth, and hit two keys on the computer terminal keyboard. No one
noticed. More officially dressed men and women spewed out of the
main building. Bryce barked into the booth as he pulled out a
passport and ID. “FBI. You must let us in immediately.
There’s an incident underway as you’ll soon see, and we
must
get across right now.” Warren placed his bent and
muddy passport next to Bryce’s.

The
guard turned to his terminal, and began to type Bryce’s name.
He tapped harder on the keys, and frowned at the screen. “Damn
computer.” He slapped the sides of the monitor, as if it
might wake it up. “These damn things, always screwing up.”