shoulder. If Lora correctly understood one of the few words that had meaning for her in the reciprocal torrent of Spanish, this was Carlos's wife, Juana. A tiny, wizened old woman addressed by both Rodriguez and his wife as Mamacita peered at them from the depths of a large iron bedstead in one corner of the single room that made up the lower level of the house. Three big-eyed children snuggled on either side of Mamacita, goggling at the newcomers from beneath the protection of bedcoverings. The single electric bulb dangling from a cord in the center of the ceiling cast a dim light over what, as far as Lora could tell, was an immaculate, if shabby, dwelling. Her abductor, whose supposedly loving arm hugged her shoulders while the gun nuzzled her rib cage beneath the sheltering sarape, soon seemed to be on the easiest of terms with the entire family.
"Veni, señor y señora Harding." With a beckoning gesture, Juana at last led the way to a ladder set into the wall at the back of the room. Lora's psuedo-husband followed, bringing Lora with him.
After one swift, despairing look around as he stood aside for her to precede him, Lora climbed the ladder, a trifle awkwardly because of the encumbrance of her purse, which she clutched in one hand. There was clearly no help for her here. To begin with, none of these people seemed to speak a word of English. And even if they had, she could not bring herself to put them in danger. If anything went wrong, her captor might very well kill them all, children included, to save himself from whoever or whatever he was running from. He could not take them all captive, not if he meant to travel. And she certainly didn't think that he would leave witnesses behind to contact the police. She doubted that they could help her anyway. Rodriguez was a farmer, not a fighter, and even with his ancient rifle he was no match for the hard brutality of the man who was even now climbing the ladder below her.
Lora clambered off the ladder through an open trapdoor to find herself on her hands and knees in what seemed to be a loft. She could not be sure because the only light came from the room below. Except for the area just around the opening, the room was pitch dark. Cautiously, Lora stayed within the perimeter of light as her captor's head and shoulders appeared through the opening. Bracing his hands on the floor, he hoisted himself up beside her. Juana called out something, and he dropped the sarape and thrust the gun into his waistband before reaching down through the opening to emerge holding a smoking kerosene lantern. Like Lora, he was on his hands and knees; he sank back on his haunches and held up the lantern to survey the space in which they found themselves.
The floor was made of rough wood planks. The thatched roof angled down on both sides so that only in the very center could a person stand upright. A painted iron bedstead like the one below stood in the middle of the room. Near its foot was a battered tin pail into which a steady series of drips fell with rhythmic plops. The windowless room had a close, musty odor that was not helped by the smell of burning kerosene. Lora felt a sudden surge of nausea and grimaced. Of course she felt sick, and it wasn't just the smell. She hadn't eaten a thing in nearly twelve hours.
He scooped up the pistol and dripping sarape as he stood, stooping in the space that had never been intended to accommodate someone of his height. Walking over to the bed, he set the lantern and pistol down on a small table beside it, and draped the sarape over the back of the single straight-backed chair. "You did very well, wife," he said with a flickering smile as he turned up the wick so that every corner of the small room was illuminated. "Keep that up and we'll get along fine." Then he turned to look at her. Lora, still on her hands and knees beside the opening, regarded him warily. She was at his mercy—and she didn't like the looks of that bed.
"Hungry?"
Lora nodded,
"Veni, señor y señora Harding." With a beckoning gesture, Juana at last led the way to a ladder set into the wall at the back of the room. Lora's psuedo-husband followed, bringing Lora with him.
After one swift, despairing look around as he stood aside for her to precede him, Lora climbed the ladder, a trifle awkwardly because of the encumbrance of her purse, which she clutched in one hand. There was clearly no help for her here. To begin with, none of these people seemed to speak a word of English. And even if they had, she could not bring herself to put them in danger. If anything went wrong, her captor might very well kill them all, children included, to save himself from whoever or whatever he was running from. He could not take them all captive, not if he meant to travel. And she certainly didn't think that he would leave witnesses behind to contact the police. She doubted that they could help her anyway. Rodriguez was a farmer, not a fighter, and even with his ancient rifle he was no match for the hard brutality of the man who was even now climbing the ladder below her.
Lora clambered off the ladder through an open trapdoor to find herself on her hands and knees in what seemed to be a loft. She could not be sure because the only light came from the room below. Except for the area just around the opening, the room was pitch dark. Cautiously, Lora stayed within the perimeter of light as her captor's head and shoulders appeared through the opening. Bracing his hands on the floor, he hoisted himself up beside her. Juana called out something, and he dropped the sarape and thrust the gun into his waistband before reaching down through the opening to emerge holding a smoking kerosene lantern. Like Lora, he was on his hands and knees; he sank back on his haunches and held up the lantern to survey the space in which they found themselves.
The floor was made of rough wood planks. The thatched roof angled down on both sides so that only in the very center could a person stand upright. A painted iron bedstead like the one below stood in the middle of the room. Near its foot was a battered tin pail into which a steady series of drips fell with rhythmic plops. The windowless room had a close, musty odor that was not helped by the smell of burning kerosene. Lora felt a sudden surge of nausea and grimaced. Of course she felt sick, and it wasn't just the smell. She hadn't eaten a thing in nearly twelve hours.
He scooped up the pistol and dripping sarape as he stood, stooping in the space that had never been intended to accommodate someone of his height. Walking over to the bed, he set the lantern and pistol down on a small table beside it, and draped the sarape over the back of the single straight-backed chair. "You did very well, wife," he said with a flickering smile as he turned up the wick so that every corner of the small room was illuminated. "Keep that up and we'll get along fine." Then he turned to look at her. Lora, still on her hands and knees beside the opening, regarded him warily. She was at his mercy—and she didn't like the looks of that bed.
"Hungry?"
Lora nodded,
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