Where There's Smoke

“Volatile.”

“Terrific,” Key muttered.

“The old regime wants to regain control. President Escávez is still in hiding, but rumor is that he’s trying to assemble an army and reclaim his office.”

“The rebels won’t allow it without a bloodbath,” Lara said.

“No doubt,” the priest agreed, “but Escávez isn’t their primary concern. He believes the people still love him, but he’s wrong. No one wants to return to the days of his despotism before the revolution. He’s just an old man deluding himself, more a nuisance than a threat. The rebels have bigger problems to worry about.”

“Such as?” Key asked. He’d worked up a sweat swinging the machete and moving the plane. He removed his shirt and used it to mop his face, neck, and throat. Lara envied him that freedom. She was sweltering. Her blouse clung to her skin.

“Lack of money is their primary problem,” the priest replied to Key’s question. “Lack of supplies. Lack of zeal. The men are disenchanted. After living in armed camps in the jungle for years, revolution isn’t nearly as exciting as it seemed in the beginning.

“They’re tired of fighting, but they fear their leaders too much to return home. They’re hungry, diseased, and homesick. Some haven’t seen their families since Escávez was overthrown. They hide in the jungle and come out only to wreak havoc on small villages and scavenge for food. Mostly they fight among themselves. Since Jorge Pérez Martínez was assassinated—”

“He was? We didn’t hear about that in the States,” Lara said, surprised. Pérez had been a general in Escávez’s army who had staged the military coup to overthrow him. The rebels had regarded him as a savior of an oppressed people.

“He was killed by one of his own men more than a year ag

o,” the priest told her. “For months the leadership was up for grabs. First one lieutenant, then another proclaimed himself Pérez’s successor, but none could hold the rebels together. There were many factions with no cohesiveness. As a result, the counterrevolutionaries, among them Escávez, began to make inroads.

“Then, one of Pérez’s protégés emerged and declared himself the new general of the rebel army. Over the last several months he’s gained support, I think chiefly because his men fear him. He’s supposedly ruthless and will stop at nothing to cement his position as leader. El Corazón del Diablo. The Devil’s Heart. That’s what they call him.” He glanced sideways at Lara. “He passionately hates Americans.”

Saying anything more would have been superfluous. She looked back at Key to find his eyes on her, piercing and intent. “It’s no worse than we expected,” she said defensively.

“No better, either.”

“I brought some clothes,” Father Geraldo said, gesturing at the soft bundle at Lara’s feet. “Before we reach the outskirts of the city, you’d better put them on.”

They’d been following a rutted dirt road that snaked through the jungle, seemingly without destination. Each time a night bird screeched, Lara’s skin broke out in goose bumps, though the humidity was stifling. Her hair felt heavy on her neck, more so when she placed a scratchy scarf over her head as was customary of the matrons of Montesangre, except for the progressive generation of women who fought alongside their male comrades in arms.

In the bundle of clothing she also found a shapeless cotton print dress. She gathered it into her hands and stepped into it, working it up her legs and over her hips before placing her arms through the sleeves. She tied it at her waist with a sash.

For Key the priest had brought the muslin tunic and pants of a farmer and a straw hat. As he placed it on his head, the jeep topped a hill. Ciudad Central was spread out below them, a blanket of twinkling lights.

At the sight of the city she despised, fear and loathing filled Lara’s heart. If she’d had a choice at that moment, she might have given up her insane objective and returned to the airplane. But somewhere in that urban sprawl her daughter was buried.

As though sensing her trepidation, Father Geraldo pulled the jeep to a halt. “What you intend to do will be extremely dangerous, Mrs. Porter. Perhaps you should reconsider.”

“I want my daughter.”

Father Geraldo engaged the gears and switched on the headlights. They started down the curving road. The narrow shoulder dropped off into nothingness. Fearfully Lara wondered how much rum Father Geraldo had consumed that evening. Whenever the wheels sank into the soft shoulder, she gripped the edge of her seat.

As it turned out, the condition of the road and Father Geraldo’s level of inebriation were inconsequential. As they came around a bend, they were impaled by blinding spotlights and deafened by a chorus of shouting voices. “Alto!”

A platoon of guerrillas surged forward to surround them, guns aimed and ready to fire.

Chapter Twenty

Jody knocked on Janellen’s bedroom door.

“Mama?”

Jody opened the door but remained standing on the threshold. She didn’t remember the last time she’d been in Janellen’s room, and some of the furnishings were unfamiliar to her. However, she recognized the cherrywood fourposter bed, chest of drawers, and dresser; they’d belonged to her daughter since she graduated from the crib.

The drapes and wallpaper were new, or at least it seemed they were. The pale gold and china-blue print combinations were too festive and feminine for her taste. She vaguely recalled granting Janellen permission to redecorate but couldn’t remember when that had been. Five years ago? Yesterday?

Janellen was lounging in an easy chair upholstered in floral chintz, her feet resting on the matching ottoman, a paperback novel lying open in her lap. A small brass lamp at her elbow cast soft, flattering lighting over her. It came as an unpleasant shock that Janellen looked almost pretty.