I reeled backward in fear, my arms pinwheeling, my feet nearly slipping out from underneath me. The next moment, the corridor grew brighter as Palmer—hearing my cry— rushed out of the chapel, carrying the candle with him.
In the candlelight, I saw that the weird creature of the catacombs was only the little priest—Father Miguel.
Well, okay, I felt like an idiot for being so scared, but the priest really was a strange-looking little dude, what can I tell you? And he really did sneak up on me!
Behind the drooping mustache that gave the tiny little man’s face its mournful look, I thought I saw him give a small smile.
“I fear I have frightened your friend,” he said to Palmer.
Palmer shook his head, rolling his eyes. “No worries, Padre. The kid’s a comedian. He embarrasses me wherever we go.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
The priest smiled again beneath that drooping mustache— and then the smile faded—disappeared. He raised his hands from his sides as if he were going to make some sort of offering. And he did—only it wasn’t the sort of offering you normally expect from a priest: guns—an AK-47 machine gun and an old six-shot revolver of some sort.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Palmer. “This is the best I can do on short notice.”
Palmer took the weapons from him. He handed the revolver to me. I stuck it under my belt.
Father Miguel nodded. “And now,” he said, “the rains are over. The dark is coming. It is time to go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Everything happened quickly now. Palmer and I woke the others. Moving in silence, we all rolled up the sleeping bags in the light of the heater and stowed them in the corner of the room where we’d found them.
All the while, the priest spoke to Palmer in a low, urgent voice.
“The soldiers are everywhere, my friend. They are saying you murdered two of the guards during your escape.”
“The guards and I had a vigorous discussion of the issues of the day,” Palmer drawled.
“Yes,” said the dwarfish little priest, his mournful expression never changing. “And you have put our mutual friend Señor Mendoza in a difficult position with his superiors. President Cobar seems to feel it is his fault that you and your companions have slipped their net.”
“Bad news for Mendoza,” said Palmer. “When Cobar asks for your letter of resignation, he usually takes your head with it.”
“You joke, but it’s true. If Mendoza does not return you to prison for trial and execution, he is a dead man. Therefore, he is, you might say, highly motivated to find you. And he has every available Volcano at his disposal to do the job. They have enough problems with people sending out the news on the Internet. They don’t want American witnesses escaping to go on TV and tell the world what’s happening here.”
We finished stowing the sleeping bags and gathered around Palmer and Father Miguel in the heater’s red light.
“Okay, Padre,” said Palmer drily. “You’ve got me really scared now. Tell me some good news.”
“We should move while we talk. There is reason to hurry.”
So we moved. Father Miguel switched on a small flashlight with a red filter. The red beam pierced the shadows in front of us and we followed it.
We shuttled through the cold, damp atmosphere of the corridors in a cluster, the four of us tagging along just behind Palmer and the little priest. The red beam played off the rough stone of the walls and shot into the unseen depths of the corridors. I couldn’t tell where we were going exactly, but I knew it was not the way we had come.
Father Miguel’s voice trailed back to us as we traveled.
“Mendoza knows you are a flier, of course. He is expecting you to try to escape by air. He has dispatched as many men as he can to guard the city’s two airfields.”
“That’s tough,” said Palmer. “We’ll never make it out of here on the ground.”
“No. This is why a certain gentleman who keeps his small Cessna in a private hangar has moved the plane to a little field not far from one of the catacomb entrances.”
“Nice of him,” said Palmer. “I assume he’s a friend of yours.”
“He is a friend of God’s,” said the priest. “And so he is a friend of freedom. But there is a problem.”
“Somehow I guessed there would be.”
“The field, as I say, is within reach of one of the catacombs’ entryways. But almost as soon as this gentleman landed there, the rebels set up a checkpoint on the road nearby. It is one of many they have set up to keep you and other enemies of the revolution within the confines of the city.”
“Great.”
“You will need to cross the open space behind this checkpoint very quietly and without being seen in order to reach the plane.”
We continued to move rapidly through the darkness, following the priest’s flashlight. Now and then the light picked out the skull of a skeleton lying in its wall grave. It was pretty disturbing—like one of those carnival fun houses. We’d be rushing along and then suddenly there would be this skull, this empty stare, this grinning mouth—then it would sink again into the shadows as we hurried past.
“Let’s say we make it to the plane,” Palmer said. “What then? I gotta turn the engine on at some point. Won’t the guards hear it?”
“They will,” said the priest. “We must hope you fly away very fast.”
Palmer gave a low chuckle. “We must hope, mustn’t we?”
We went on through the corridors, turning this way and that, following the beam and the moving silhouettes of Palmer and Father Miguel. Already, I could feel the tension building inside me. I was thinking about how we’d have to sneak past the guards, get across the field, get to the airplane.
I told myself to stop thinking so much. Suspend the imagination. Don’t worry about anything. Pray about everything. I did pray—and it was working pretty well . . .
Until I saw the stairway.
It was just up ahead: a rickety metal structure standing against one wall of the corridor, pretty much the same as the one we had come down. As we were approaching it, it seemed to lead up to nowhere, to the ceiling. But as we got closer, I saw there was a dark opening above.
Then the tension flared in me again. This was it. Our chance to get away, to get out of this country, to get home.
Our last chance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Palmer held the flashlight as Father Miguel climbed slowly up the stairs. The dwarfish man in black moved clumsily as if he were not used to so much exercise and every step was painful for him.
A moment passed. Our frightened eyes met in the red glow of the flashlight. Then we heard a heavy stone slab shifting above us.
I peered up the stairs into the darkness. “He’s so small,” I whispered. “How does he do that?”
“He’s bigger on the inside,” Palmer answered quietly.
The slab shifted again—and then gray light flooded down to us where we stood at the base of the staircase. I squinted up into the sudden brightness. My heart beat hard. I was glad to see daylight after so long underground, but I knew, too, that my life—all our lives—depended on the next few minutes.
I saw the priest’s stunted shape above me. He peeked up through the catacomb opening. Then he came quickly back down the stairs to us.
“You must go now. Quickly.”
Palmer shouldered his rifle. Stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Padre. Until we meet again.”
“In this life or the next.” Father Miguel shook his hand.
Nicki kissed the priest’s cheek. “Thank you so much, Father.” She headed up the stairs.
“I hope your country finds peace,” Meredith said. She kissed Father Miguel too and went up into the light.
“Good luck,” said Jim, shaking the priest’s hand.
I was the last. I put my hand out and Father Miguel put his gnarled, claw-like hand into mine.
“Thanks, Padre,” I said.
“Take car
e of Palmer,” said the mournful-looking little priest. “He is a good man.”
“I don’t think he needs my help,” I said.
“I know you don’t think so. But you are wrong. Watch out for him.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Go with God.”
I nodded—and let him go. And headed up the stairs into the light.
The stairs led up to another stone coffin. I had to reach up from the top step to grab the top of the coffin’s wall. I hauled myself up and over it into the waning daylight—and as I did, I felt Palmer and Jim grab me and pull me up quickly.
I dropped out of the grave and onto the muddy ground.
I looked around me to get my bearings. I saw my friends, all crouched low behind little house-shaped stone structures of various pastel colors. I started to stand, but Palmer gestured me down with his hand, and I remained on my knees, my head bent low. I scouted the scene.
We were in a graveyard. An acre or two of ground crowded with pastel monuments. The jungle pressed close to the cemetery border behind us, but in front of us, as the priest had said, there was a stretch of open ground—then more jungle on the other side.
I looked at Palmer. He was peering intensely over the top of a monument. I followed his gaze off to the left.
There was the road—and the checkpoint. Two pickups had been turned lengthwise across the paved two-way to block the passage. Four gun-toting rebels were posted in front of the trucks. Two of the rebels leaned against the trucks’ sides smoking cigarettes and looking off into the distance. Two others paced and chatted. They were about a football field away, but close enough to catch our movements if we crossed within sight of them.
Where was the plane? I looked to my right now and spotted it. The edge of the jungle across the field sort of curved around away from us. The little Cessna was parked on the far side of the curve, so that the trees shielded it and the soldiers couldn’t see it from the checkpoint. All we had to do was creep across the open space to the jungle, then make our way under the cover of the trees to the airplane.
That’s all we had to do.
The afternoon rains were over now, but the sky was still steel gray. It was growing darker too, as the sun set behind the clouds. The heat of the morning had passed into a dense, humid chill. I could see my breath clouding in front of me as I waited, crouched behind the monument. The place was quiet. Very quiet. The insects buzzed. Occasionally a bird laughed in the trees. No other noise.
Palmer crouched even lower now so he could whisper to us.
“All right,” he said. “The kid’ll go first so we have a gun on each side. Then the rest of you will go while I wait here . . .”
“No.”
Startled, we all turned toward Jim. His protruding eyes were fixed on Palmer, his thin lips pressed tightly together. “That makes no sense. You have to go first, Palmer. You’re the only one who can fly the plane. If you get hurt, we’re all finished. If you’re already over there, whoever makes it to you has a chance of getting away.”
Palmer hesitated. But then, to my surprise, he nodded. “Jim’s right.” He held the AK out to me.
But Jim reached out and wrapped his hand around the barrel. “Will’s risked enough. I’ll stay behind and cover you. I’m a better shot than he is anyway. I got a marksman medal at summer camp when I was twelve.”
Again, Palmer hesitated. And I was doubtful. I didn’t want to shoot anybody else—not ever. But I knew I would if I had to. Would Jim? Was he really willing to fight against his cherished rebels?
I looked at him. He seemed serious enough. And however annoying he might have been at times, I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who would betray his friends.
Palmer shifted the rifle toward him and handed it over.
“If they come for us, blast them,” he said.
“I will,” said Jim.
Palmer put his hand out to me. I drew the revolver out of my belt and gave it to him.
“All right,” he said. “Watch me. Then follow one at a time.”
Palmer moved. He stayed low and dodged in a crouch from one monument to the next until he was at the edge of the cemetery, at the edge of the open field. The rest of us remained where we were, watching him from around the edges of the little pastel gravestones. Our tense, rapid, nervous breaths plumed in the air.
Palmer waited, watching the guards at the checkpoint. The two who were pacing together turned their backs on us. They were a funny-looking pair, one tall and narrow, one short and squat. They walked away across the road. They passed in front of the other two, the smoking guards, blocking their vision a little.
Palmer chose that moment and broke cover.
I don’t know how far it was from the graveyard to the jungle’s edge—twenty yards? thirty?—but in those next few seconds—when Palmer was out in the open—when the guards could turn and see him at any second—it sure seemed like a long, long way. Bent over, carrying the pistol low at his side, Palmer rushed across the muddy grass without another look in the direction of the checkpoint.
But I looked. I saw the pacing rebels reach the far side of the road and start to turn. I glanced back at Palmer. He was only a few steps from reaching the protection of the trees. The pacing rebels turned around, chatting with one another. Then the skinny one glanced up—right in the direction of the open field.
By then, though, Palmer had made it across. He was crouched low within the cover of the jungle. He signaled us to follow, one at a time.
Meredith went next. She did just what Palmer had done. Stayed low. Dodged from monument to monument to the edge of the cemetery. Crouched there, watching the guards.
This time, though, the two pacing men stopped on our side of the road. They were chatting together and laughing, not particularly looking our way, but not looking anywhere else either. If Meredith moved, they would almost surely see her.
Finally, with another burst of laughter, the two guards turned around—and Meredith ran for it.
She kept low and moved fast. Before the rebel guards had taken two steps along the road, she was nearly across the open space. But she was too fast. The ground was too muddy, the grass too wet. Just before she reached the far jungle, her foot slipped. She tumbled down to one knee with a gasp.
The fall didn’t make a lot of noise, but the little splash and Meredith’s little gasp—they were different from all the other sounds of the surrounding jungle. They stood out.
The skinny guard must have heard them. He turned to glance over his shoulder. Luckily, he glanced over his left shoulder, toward the cemetery. He didn’t spot Meredith. But then he turned to glance over his right.
By then, Meredith had scrambled to her feet, and Palmer had reached out of the trees to grab her arm and yank her into the jungle cover. When the guard looked in that direction, she was already gone.
But the skinny rebel was alert now. He turned to his squat friend. He gestured at the open passage between the cemetery and the jungle. The squat guard shrugged. The skinny guard spoke to the two others leaning against the trucks. They shrugged too.
Then the two pacing rebels—Skinny and Squat—began coming our way.
You could tell by the casual way they strolled toward us that they were not really worried yet. They were just being cautious, that’s all, just checking things out. Jim and Nicki and I crouched low and breathed hard as we watched them come closer down the open corridor of grass between the jungle and the cemetery. I could see Palmer and Meredith watching bright-eyed from the trees across the way.
I tried to will the guards to turn back to their checkpoint— Stop! Turn around! Turn around!—but they just kept coming. I felt Jim shift beside me and turned to see him moving his hand on the grip of the AK, slipping his finger around the trigger. Getting ready for whatever happened next.
Another few steps and they were right across from us, only a few yards away. They scanned the graveyard, their eyes passing directly over the place where Nicki and Jim and I were
crouching in fear. They didn’t see us. They turned the other way and scanned the jungle—then the skinny one stopped and said, “Que es . . . ?” What’s that?
I held my breath. Had he spotted Meredith and Palmer? No. He was moving away from where they were crouched in the trees, moving away from all of us. He moved to where the tree line started to curve away.
Then he shouted. He was waving to his squat friend. The squat guard joined him . . . And now I saw what they were both staring at.
“They found the plane!” I whispered.
The two guards were talking rapidly to each other.
“Can you hear what they’re saying?” I asked Jim.
He shook his head. But then he answered in a very low whisper, “They’re going to call Mendoza.”
The squat guard nodded and started jogging back heavily toward the trucks in the road. The skinny guard—a meanlooking, snarly-faced guy I saw now—moved in the other direction, toward the plane. He was looking it over, but also looking all around him in case someone else might be near.
“What do we do?” Nicki whispered. “Mendoza will send more soldiers . . .”
I nodded. She was right. In a couple of minutes, the place would be littered with rebels. They’d be sure to confiscate the plane—or set it on fire. They might even search the jungle for us. We had to get out of here—and we had to do it now.
But the skinny, snarly-faced guard was keeping watch, standing in the open ground, studying the plane, searching the surrounding area with narrowed, suspicious eyes. There was no way to get past him.
I peered across the open field to the jungle. I saw Meredith—I could see her eyes gleaming at me out of the jungle shadows. I saw her make a gesture—pushing her open palm out toward me: Wait!
I waited. I glanced over at the checkpoint. The squat guard had now made his breathless way back to the others. He was giving them the news about the plane. One of the smoking guards dashed his cigarette into a puddle by the side of the road. He took out his cell phone and held it to his ear.