pervasive green rolled on below as they headed farther and farther south.
South. Villahermosa was in Tabasco, already pretty far into the tail end of the country. Not much more of Mexico south of there. After that, they'd be in Belize or Guatemala. Will didn't know much about Guatemala, but didn't like what he did know: guerrillas, military patrols, checkpoints, death squads, the whole banana republic thing. He wanted no part of that.
The worm of unease, the worm with whom Will had formed a close personal relationship during the past few weeks, began its familiar wriggle through his gut.
Things had moved so quickly after his meeting with Dave. When he'd called Maya to tell her he had to leave right away or not at all, she'd sounded almost panicked. Timing was everything, she'd said. She would have to leave immediately. She'd called his travel agent and detailed the arrangements to make for him, and told him she'd link up with him down here . . . in Mesoamerica.
A tap on his shoulder drew Will from his reverie. Diego was saying something unintelligible over the noise and pointing to a long valley dead ahead. Will saw an oblong clearing in the jungle.
What? Was he saying they were going to land? There? God, it wasn't a landing strip—it was barely even a field. He couldn't be serious.
When the Cessna banked into a descending turn, Will decided Diego was indeed serious. He looked around—anywhere but below. Off to the west he spotted a low bank of storm clouds, chugging along just above the jungle like a great gray frigate plowing through a sea of green, but it seemed to be moving away.
Nowhere did he see a sign of civilization. Wasn't there a town nearby? Or even a village?
Diego dropped his plane into a long, low glide, just inches from the tree tops, and brought the Cessna in for a brain-jarringly bumpy landing on the rutted, puddled soup of red mud and grass. When they finally slalomed to a stop less than fifty feet from the trees, Diego idled the engine and slapped Will on the thigh.
“Estamos aquí,” he said, grinning.
Will looked around. “Where the hell is ‘here’?”
“Aquí. Aquí-aquí-aquí.”
The jungle pushed against the periphery of the clearing, its clustered trees jostling each other as they edged inward like a crowd around an accident.
“I don't think this is a ‘here’ where I want to be,” Will said.
Suddenly he wanted out of ‘here,’ to be back in the good old U.S. of A. He didn't care if he'd have to move into a homeless shelter, it was better than being left alone in this foreign and overwhelmingly green wasteland. Panic began to sink its claws into him, tearing at the inner walls of his chest. How had he ever let himself get into this mess? What had he been thinking? Or had he been thinking at all?
No way he was getting out of this plane. He was about to tell Diego to turn it around and buzz him out of here when an open, beat-up, mud-splattered two-seater Jeep bounded into the clearing. It slewed to a halt and a spindly-armed, barrel-chested little man jumped out. He was dressed in some sort of tunic made of coarse white cotton. Will's attention homed in on the machete thrust through the embroidered belt around his waist. He trotted barefooted to Will's door and pulled it open.
“Señor Burleigh?” he said with a smile.
He had a round head covered with lank black hair, and bright dark eyes set in a face the color and texture of a baked apple. His smile revealed big white teeth outlined with gold; the metal gleamed in the sunlight, framing his top incisors like Old Master paintings.
Will hesitated, tempted to say that Señor Burleigh wouldn't be coming, but Diego knew the truth.
“That's me.”
“Bueno! Maya, she send me.” He thrust out a thickly callused hand. “I am Ambrosio.”
Will shook hands. “Where's Maya?”
“We go to meet her now. She arrive two days ago. She wait for us in the hills.”
“What hills?”
“Not far. You will see.”
Another
South. Villahermosa was in Tabasco, already pretty far into the tail end of the country. Not much more of Mexico south of there. After that, they'd be in Belize or Guatemala. Will didn't know much about Guatemala, but didn't like what he did know: guerrillas, military patrols, checkpoints, death squads, the whole banana republic thing. He wanted no part of that.
The worm of unease, the worm with whom Will had formed a close personal relationship during the past few weeks, began its familiar wriggle through his gut.
Things had moved so quickly after his meeting with Dave. When he'd called Maya to tell her he had to leave right away or not at all, she'd sounded almost panicked. Timing was everything, she'd said. She would have to leave immediately. She'd called his travel agent and detailed the arrangements to make for him, and told him she'd link up with him down here . . . in Mesoamerica.
A tap on his shoulder drew Will from his reverie. Diego was saying something unintelligible over the noise and pointing to a long valley dead ahead. Will saw an oblong clearing in the jungle.
What? Was he saying they were going to land? There? God, it wasn't a landing strip—it was barely even a field. He couldn't be serious.
When the Cessna banked into a descending turn, Will decided Diego was indeed serious. He looked around—anywhere but below. Off to the west he spotted a low bank of storm clouds, chugging along just above the jungle like a great gray frigate plowing through a sea of green, but it seemed to be moving away.
Nowhere did he see a sign of civilization. Wasn't there a town nearby? Or even a village?
Diego dropped his plane into a long, low glide, just inches from the tree tops, and brought the Cessna in for a brain-jarringly bumpy landing on the rutted, puddled soup of red mud and grass. When they finally slalomed to a stop less than fifty feet from the trees, Diego idled the engine and slapped Will on the thigh.
“Estamos aquí,” he said, grinning.
Will looked around. “Where the hell is ‘here’?”
“Aquí. Aquí-aquí-aquí.”
The jungle pushed against the periphery of the clearing, its clustered trees jostling each other as they edged inward like a crowd around an accident.
“I don't think this is a ‘here’ where I want to be,” Will said.
Suddenly he wanted out of ‘here,’ to be back in the good old U.S. of A. He didn't care if he'd have to move into a homeless shelter, it was better than being left alone in this foreign and overwhelmingly green wasteland. Panic began to sink its claws into him, tearing at the inner walls of his chest. How had he ever let himself get into this mess? What had he been thinking? Or had he been thinking at all?
No way he was getting out of this plane. He was about to tell Diego to turn it around and buzz him out of here when an open, beat-up, mud-splattered two-seater Jeep bounded into the clearing. It slewed to a halt and a spindly-armed, barrel-chested little man jumped out. He was dressed in some sort of tunic made of coarse white cotton. Will's attention homed in on the machete thrust through the embroidered belt around his waist. He trotted barefooted to Will's door and pulled it open.
“Señor Burleigh?” he said with a smile.
He had a round head covered with lank black hair, and bright dark eyes set in a face the color and texture of a baked apple. His smile revealed big white teeth outlined with gold; the metal gleamed in the sunlight, framing his top incisors like Old Master paintings.
Will hesitated, tempted to say that Señor Burleigh wouldn't be coming, but Diego knew the truth.
“That's me.”
“Bueno! Maya, she send me.” He thrust out a thickly callused hand. “I am Ambrosio.”
Will shook hands. “Where's Maya?”
“We go to meet her now. She arrive two days ago. She wait for us in the hills.”
“What hills?”
“Not far. You will see.”
Another
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