Where There's Smoke

The military transport truck hit a chuckhole. Lara was thrown against the steel side of the “deuce and a half,” which was the American slang for the tonnage of the truck. They’d been traveling for hours.

Almost before her brain had registered that they were surrounded by armed men, her hands had been roughly tied behind her. They were still bound, making it impossible to maintain her balance as the truck bounced along. She’d been thrown from side to side so many times, she would be covered with bruises. If she lived.

That was still open to speculation.

Father Geraldo was dead. Dr. Soto had died in midsentence. Key was very much alive. Thank God. He had kept up a litany of abusive curses as they were dragged from the cemetery and forced into the truck. Several soldiers had been rifling through their belongings left in the jeep. One had been fiddling with the camera and lenses in the camera bag. Key shouted at him. “Keep your goddamn hands off that!”

Like Lara, his hands were tied behind him, but he rushed forward and kicked the bag out of the soldier’s hands. The hotheaded soldier cracked the butt of his pistol against Key’s temple. Key staggered and dropped to his knees, but he wasn’t cowed. He looked at the soldier and, with blood dripping from the wound on the side of his head, grinned and said, “Your mother got you by fucking a jackass.”

Whether he understood English, the soldier interpreted the comment as an insult and lunged for Key. Before he could get retribution, Ricardo ordered the younger man to get them into the truck.

There was some discussion among them as to whether they should bring the jeep along or leave it at the cemetery gate. Ricardo decided to let one of the guerrillas follow them in it.

Lara and Key were hoisted into the back of the truck. Their belongings, including the camera bag and her doctor’s bag, were tossed in after them. The soldiers climbed aboard, then lowered and latched the canvas canopy. They could see nothing, but their captors insisted that they be blindfolded. Naturally, Key didn’t submit. It took three men holding him down before they could secure the dirty bandanna over his eyes.

Lara knew that physical resistance would be futile, but her eyes conveyed the full extent of her contempt before she was likewise blindfolded.

The road was virtually impassable. The soldiers were unwashed. In the airless confines of the truck, the smell was overpowering. She was thirsty but knew that any request for water would go unheeded. Her butt was sore, as were her arms and legs. The bindings around her wrists were beginning to chafe.

She wanted to know where they were taking them and why. How much longer until they reached their destination? Did they even have a specific destination? When they reached it, what then?

She conserved the strength it would take to ask. No one would answer her. They had attempted to communicate only once. Key had been punished for it.

“Lara?” His throat had sounded as raspy and dry as hers. “You okay?”

“Key?”

“Thank God.” He sighed. “Hang in there and—”

“¡Silencio!”

“Fuck you.”

There was a scuffle, then a moan, and Key hadn’t spoken to her since.

She tried self-hypnosis to remove her mind and body from the present situation. But each time she tried to conjure up mental pictures of a desert sunset, or a rolling tide, or drifting clouds, her focus returned to the mass grave in the cemetery where her daughter would be interred forever.

Accomplishing what she had set out to do was an impossibility. Why then didn’t she try to escape, and let a soldier’s bullet be her deliverance? Father Geraldo and Dr. Soto had felt no pain. Instant extinction. How lovely.

Why did she still have the will to survive?

No, it was stronger than will. It was a resolve to see the ones responsible for such an atrocity punished. Burying the daughter of a U.S. ambassador in such an unspeakable manner violated universally acknowledged human rights. If she lived, she would see to it that the world knew about the disgrace.

Lara had dealt with many terminally ill patients. Until tonight she had not understood their unwillingness to surrender life. How could one hang on, stubbornly clinging to life, knowing that the situation was hopeless? She’d often contemplated the human spirit’s refusal to accept death. Now she understood that one could survive even the worst possible circumstances.

The survival instinct was stronger than she had believed. It preserved life, even when the mind had given up. If that were not so, she would have died upon seeing that mass grave and learning that her baby girl was buried there. That innate determination to live sustained her through the long night.

She must have dozed because she came awake when the truck ground to a halt and she heard sounds of activity outside the truck. She smelled wood smoke and cooking food.

“Here already?” Key quipped sarcastically.

She was brought to her feet

and lifted out of the truck. Her limbs were stiff and sore. She stumbled when she was shoved forward, but the fresh air on her skin and in her lungs was welcome. She breathed deeply and tried to work circulation back into her legs.

Suddenly the blindfold was ripped off. Ricardo was standing close, smiling broadly. “¡Bienvenido!” She recoiled from his rancid breath. “El Corazón is anxious to welcome his special guests.”

She was surprised at his command of English. “I have plenty to say to El Corazón, too.”