Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (10 page)

    
Loud shouts and swearing reach him from above. Its echoes return two
second later from across the valley. He glances up to the cliff top, but the
spot from where he jumped off is too far around the bend. This means
that he is not visible from there either. Nevertheless, he decides to hide
under a portion of denser canopy a few meters farther down. Only then
does he become aware of a sore spot on his chest. Any deep breath and
pain shoot into his right side.
Did I break a rib?
he wonders. Gingerly,
he touches the spot. There is a small rip in his rain jacket. He reaches
under his shirt. It feels sore, but the hand comes out dry. No blood. If a
sprained rib is all the damage I suffered, I got away lightly, he muses to
himself.

    
After resting for five minutes, he crawls to the edge of the ledge.
Some twenty meters below him and a bit to the left, he spots two oddly
bent legs and part of a twisted torso stick out from between rocks near
the river. He recognizes the color of the pants. It is ‘
le second
’. The man
must have lost his footing when he tried to stop me from jumping, he
reckons. He tries to push away the feeling of guilt for having caused this
death. It hadn’t been part of his plan. It was an accident. If the guy hadn’t
foolishly tried to intervene, he would still be alive. He reminds himself
that, if ordered, this man would have killed him without even blinking
twice. But this does not soothe his conscience.

    
Will ‘
le vilain
’ send the other guy down to check on their comrade?
Although he doubts this, he remains watching the scene below for what
he guesses is about half an hour, the time he judges it would take
someone to get from the top of the switchbacks down to the river. At the
same time he carefully studies the cliff for a route down. Just below him,
the wall is pretty vertical, offering no hand and footholds. There may be
better places elsewhere. When he figures that nobody is coming down,
he goes to the lower end of the ledge. He almost cries out in joy when he
sees scant remains of where the ledge must have broken off. The
remnants are slanting almost down to the river. From there he should be
able to lower himself to the rocks at the river’s edge.

    
He takes it carefully and slowly. It would be silly to have an accident,
now that he successfully escaped. There are some tricky bits where the
ledge has sheered off completely. But he makes it down safely. Ten
minutes later, he is standing next to the twisted body of ‘
le second
’. The
man lost his backpack and weapon in the fall. André scans to rocks
higher up, but cannot spot them. He doubts though that they fell into the
river. It would be useful, if not essential for his survival in this harsh
environment, to have at least the pack. Before searching higher up, he
quickly rifles through the pockets of the man’s badly torn clothes and
finds a number of handy items: a crushed box of matches, an imitation
Swiss army knife, a comb, a thin wallet containing a few low denomination peso notes and tattered identity papers in the name of Rinaldo Garcìa
that even to his inexperienced eye look forged. He stuffs the wallet back
into the man’s vest. The last item he finds, and what a surprise, are the
two twenty-thousand peso notes he used to distract him.

    
The partially torn backpack is wedged between two large boulders a
few meters above the body. Locating the AK47 takes longer. It was
thrown more then twenty meters to the side. Its shaft is buried partially
in a soft patch of earth.

    
Withdrawing behind the shelter of the cliff bend, he first inspects the
AK47 and cleans its muzzle. He has seen its kind before and is familiar
with its use. It seems undamaged, but he will only be able to tell for sure
after trying it out, and that is out of the question for now. It may alert his
captors. The backpack has a bad rip on its side. It contains a raft of useful
things, dry food, including a large unopened bar of Colombian chocolate
and a bag of dried figs, a small cooking pot that suffered in the fall, a
hunting knife, binoculars, a fishing line and a hook, a water bottle, a
change of clothing, dirty and smelly and much too small for him, a big
plastic sheet — handy to remain dry at night — woolen gloves, several
meters of rope, a small first-aid box, part of a toilet roll, and three full
magazines for the AK47. In its outside pocket, he discovers a bar of soap,
a little plastic bag with dried leaves and a small box containing a gray
powder. Coca leaves and lye powder — the stimulant used by the native
Indians, he reckons. He read that adding a bit of the powder to the leaves,
letting the mixture soak in the mouth with saliva and then chewing the
softened leaves has been used to relieve altitude sickness, as well as
hunger and fatigue. That might come in handy. He puts it back into the
pocket. His inspection completed, he uses a bit of the fishing line to fix
the ripped side of the pack. He is ready to go after their captors.

    
At the bottom of the switchbacks, he searches for footprints. He can
distinguish five different sets. Three almost identical from heavy boots,
a small set with a very distinctive pattern — Bianca’s — and his own.
For the second time, he climbs up the switchbacks, the gun ready in his
hands. Although he carries a pack and gun, it seems to require less effort.
Amazing how a change in circumstances can result in such a change of
perception, he muses, a smile on his face. He again feels in control of his
life.

    
Before reaching the edge of the plateau, he puts down the pack and
crawls to the top. The track crosses the gradually rising area in a straight
line and then disappears in a break of the ridge bordering the plateau. The
forested hills beyond rise like waves to the cloud covered mountains in
the distance. Nothing moves. He retrieves his pack and hurries across the
open area. Rather than enter the break in the ridge immediately, he first
checks out the terrain ahead from the ridge itself and makes sure the next
stretch is clear. This becomes the pattern for the rest of the day. The river
they have followed more or less since the start is no longer in sight. He
encounters only one fork in the track. The faint boot prints on a sandy
patch a few meters into the left branch point him in the right direction.

    
Late afternoon, he comes to a clearing. Scouting it out from underneath the dark shaded forest canopy, he catches movement on the
mountainside about half a kilometer ahead and three or four hundred
meters higher up. Three people. He recognizes the light colored clothing
as Bianca’s. So they are at most an hour ahead of him. He wonders where
they intend to stop for the night. He doesn’t want to stumble inadvertently into their camp, but neither does he want to let them gain too much
of a lead on him.

    
He waits until he judges that they have lost direct sight of the clearing,
in case any one of them looks back, and then attacks the climb up the
mountainside. About an hour later he recognizes the place where he
spotted them. He again becomes more cautious. Shortly afterward, the
track levels out. The forest becomes more open. Clouds or fog are
hanging on the slopes ahead. Dusk is creeping up the slopes. Again, he
ponders what to do. Should he continue or find a hiding place for the
night, not too far off the track? He judges the latter option as safer. Not
only is tracking at night without a flashlight impossible, nor would he
dare using it even if he had one, but he also needs to eat and rest.

    
The track crosses a small river. He decides to look for a suitable
resting place upstream. The flat little valley narrows a stones-throw
farther on, gradually entering a canyon. Remaining on this side leaves
him open for easy discovery. He ventures into the canyon. After barely
twenty meters, it opens into another grassy clearing, cluttered here and
there with big boulders. It is protected on all sides by steep slopes. Just
ideal. He will even be able to light a small fire. Besides, the river may
offer not only water, but even something more delectable than hot corn
mash.

* * *

Every bone, every muscle in Bianca’s body hurts. Her legs feel heavy as
lead. She can hardly lift her feet. The rather steep climb up the mountainside has drained her of her last ounce of strength. She is even beyond
fright of what is going to happen, numb to any feelings. She also is
thirsty and again disoriented, but doesn’t dare to ask for water. They
might drug her again and then she would not know what is happening to
her. Suffering and thirst she prefers to another memory blank.

    
She begins to stumble and then falls. The man behind helps her up and
without uttering a word drapes her arm over his shoulder, hooks his arm
around her waist, holding her upright, and keeps her going. It seems to
take an interminable time before they reach a small settlement, tucked
into the side of a mountain.

    
She is vaguely aware being helped to lie down on a mattress. At one
point somebody shakes her awake. Dutifully, she empties the cup of
water given to her and then sinks back into oblivion almost instantly.

    
Warmth on her face wakes her. She does not know how long she has
slept. For an instance, she thinks Franco’s soft warm hand is caressing
her cheek, like he did after the first time they made love. She opens her
eyes, at first almost blinded by the bright sunlight shining through a small
and dirty window. She is in a low-ceiling room, just twice the size of the
lumpy mattress she is lying on. The walls are rough wood. The only other
item in the room besides the mattress is a rusty bucket in the corner under
the window. It takes her a moment to figure out its purpose. When she
does, the horror of reality rushes back. A bucket to relieve herself? She
winces. They are going to keep her incarcerated in this miserable room.
For how long? She does not even know how many days she has already
been in captivity.

    
The force of nature is stronger. She badly needs to empty both her
bladder and bowels. She almost gags when she discovers the dried-up
stains of shit in the bucket. However, she feels greatly relieved when she
is done and uses one of her tissues to wipe herself. She does not even
mind the stench slowly settling over the room. After a while, she tries to
open the window. It is nailed solid into the frame. Next, she tries the
door, knowing beforehand that it will be locked too.

    
Shortly afterward, she hears footsteps coming from beyond the door
and a second later the scraping of a bolt. Apprehension makes her shiver.
What are they going to do to her? A young man enters. She guesses he is
not yet out of his teens. His features are still soft. There is no cruelty in
his eyes, only curiosity. Without a word he hands her a bowl of lukewarm
corn mash, a spoon and a cup of water. He looks at the bucket, wrinkling
his nose, and removes it. The sight of food makes her hungry, and she
eats rapidly, as if afraid it might be taken away from her before she is
finished. A few minutes later he brings her a pail of water.

    
"For washing,
señorita
," he mutters.

    
He collects her empty bowl and spoon and leaves. The scraping of the
bolt signals that the door is locked. She inspects the pail. The water looks
clean, but she wonders how to wash herself. Without soap, nor a
washcloth or towel, all she can do is to splash water into her face and
rinse her hands.

    
There is nothing for her to do but remain lying on the mattress.
Despair and fright creep back. No matter how hard she fights, the tears
prove stronger. Convulsive sobs shake her until exhaustion claims her
again.

    
The sound of the door opening wakes her. It is dark. She is cold. A
bright flashlight sweeps over her and the room. The same young man
brings her a large cup of water and a bowl of kidney beans in a thick
reddish sauce. She thanks him. He murmurs something she does not
grasp and averts his eyes embarrassed.

    
The dish tastes like chili beans. She cannot even remember when she
last ate any. It is surprisingly good, but maybe it is the hunger rather than
the food itself that makes it so. When he comes to pick up the empty
bowl, she begs him for a blanket. A few minutes later he brings her a
coarse horse blanket.

    
Having slept most of the day, she feels wide-awake. She does not
know what to do. She would have liked some fresh air, to get some
exercise, go for a short walk. André’s voice echoes in her mind,
admonishing her that she must direct her effort into remaining sane. If he
believed in his own words, why did he kill himself? Why did he abandon
her? She knows that only his calm presence prevented her from becoming
hysterical when the kidnappers seized them. Had she but listened to him,
she wishes ruefully, when he begged her not to go across the river. All
she did was to mock him after he said that he had a premonition that
something bad was going to happen. Again, she wonders what he knew
and held back from her.