James Grippando - A King's ransom

He held the knife vertically, grabbing the handle like a ski pole and placing the tip between the prisoner’s outstretched thumb and index finger. Slowly he raised it and brought it down carefully between the index and middle finger. Up again, then down between the middle and ring finger. Up and down once more between the ring and pinkie finger, and then he started all over again between the thumb and index finger, a little faster this time, counting as he moved from one to the next.

“ Uno, dos, tres, cuatro .”

The guerrillas watched, riveted. Most of the prisoners looked past the spectacle. All was silent, save for the tapping. With each move the tip of the blade tapped against the stump, matching the rhythm of his count.

“ Uno, dos, tres, cuatro .” Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Joaquin’s face strained with concentration. His eyes grew wider. The pace quickened. The shiny blade moved from one position to the next faster and faster still. The tapping became like machine-gun fire, the counting like one long word. A wave of panic washed over Will’s face as the guerrilla’s motion built to what seemed like a frenzy-back and forth, thumb to pinkie, then back again. The knife was a blur, the tapping nonstop, the rhythm ever escalating.

Until finally a deafening shout pierced the silence.

Matthew looked away, then back. The Canadian was rigid, motionless. It wasn’t Will who’d screamed. It was Joaquin. He let out a second one, even louder, as he thrust his unbloodied knife triumphantly into the air. It was a game for him, and he’d won. His steady hand and coordination had prevailed. The Canadian’s fingers had been spared, untouched by metal.

Will was trembling. “ Gracias ,” was all he could say, thankful still to have all his digits.

“Now you try,” said Joaquin.

Will looked around, not sure who Joaquin was talking to. “You mean me?”

“Yes. You.” Joaquin handed over the knife. Two guerrillas aimed their assault rifles at Will’s chest, just in case he had any ideas.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Exactly what I just did.”

“I can’t.”

Joaquin removed a nine-millimeter pistol from his holster. “You will,” he said flatly, aiming at Will’s forehead.

Will swallowed hard and acquiesced. He spread his fingers once more atop the stump.

Matthew watched with his heart in his throat. Will grasped the knife firmly, though even from fifteen feet away Matthew could see it shaking in his hand. It seemed bigger, more unwieldy for Will.

He started where Joaquin had started, with the tip of the long blade between his thumb and index finger. He left it there for several long, silent moments, afraid to move.

Finally, Joaquin cocked his pistol. “Begin.”

Will drew a deep breath, then slowly moved the blade from the first position to the second, then to the third, the fourth.

“ Rapido, ” said Joaquin.

He picked up the pace. The tapping continued. A rhythm was building, though not as steady as Joaquin’s. Will’s eyes bulged, the intense concentration broken only by intermittent flashes of pain from the slightest of scratches. The first nick was to the ring finger, followed by several clean taps, then another glancing blow to a knuckle. Little white and crimson specks of flesh were starting to collect on the blade.

“Count it off!”

“One, two, three, four.”

“ ?Rapido! ”

Will was too breathless to count. Joaquin pressed the barrel of his pistol to the prisoner’s forehead. “ ?Mas rapido! ”

Will turned it up a notch, his hand a blur, the tapping incessant, his breathing erratic, until he could maintain the pace no longer.

The tapping ended with a thud-then a bloodcurdling scream. It rolled across the mountain peaks, down into the valley, then returned in what seemed like three or four waves in a long, chilling echo. The knife was protruding from his hand, having made short work of the tender webbing between his thumb and index finger.

Joaquin grabbed the handle and held the blade in place, so that Will couldn’t remove it from the wound without ripping the skin.

“Get it out!”

Joaquin held the blade firm. Then in one quick motion he jerked it down like a mini-guillotine, adding a little hop to bring down the full force of his body weight. The bone snapped with a loud pop. Another scream followed, this one even worse than the other.

The severed thumb rolled off the stump and landed at Joaquin’s feet.

Even the guerrillas were stunned silent. Matthew started forward to help, but Aida trained her rifle on him, stopping him in his tracks.

“ Por favor. He’ll bleed to death!”

The stump was soaked in red. Will was holding his bloody hand between his legs. “You animal! You didn’t have to do this to me!”

Joaquin gave a signal to Aida, who then allowed Matthew to pass. Another guerrilla tossed him an old gray scarf, which Matthew wrapped around Will’s hand to stop the bleeding. The hand felt cold. His whole body was like ice, his face pale.

“He’s going into shock!” said Matthew. “We need more blankets.”

No one moved.

“If he dies, you get no ransom,” said Matthew.

Joaquin seemed torn, as if giving the man a blanket might undermine the point he’d been trying to make in front of the prisoners. But Matthew could see in his face that his own point about the ransom was hitting home. Joaquin finally gave the order, and one of the guards disappeared into the hut for some blankets.

Will was shivering in Matthew’s arms. “It’s going to be all right,” Matthew said quietly. “Just hang in there.”

Joaquin took the knife and gave it one last flick. The tip stuck perfectly into the tree stump. Then he picked up the severed thumb and held it up for the other prisoners to see.

“No need for Don William to write a letter now,” said Joaquin. “His wife gets this.”

The prisoners stood silent. Finally the young mother in the group began to weep. Joaquin started to walk away, then stopped and addressed the group in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

“Soon I’ll ask each of you to write another letter home. Not just to prove you’re alive but, more important, to urge your families to pay your ransom. Write it. Write it with conviction.” He turned away and headed for the smoky hut.

Matthew kept pressure on Will’s bloody stump to control the bleeding. Part of him wanted to grab the knife and tell Joaquin that the Rey family would never pay either, but this man was evil, perhaps even psychopathic. There was no telling what he’d do to keep his prisoners in line, to squeeze a ransom out of their families.

Thank God I bought insurance, he thought as the Canadian groaned once more in pain, his body growing colder in Matthew’s arms.

Iwanted to see Grandma before going to Bogota. Maybe I was dreaming, but I was truly hopeful that the kidnappers would let me speak to Dad on the telephone once I got to Bogota. I wanted to be able to pass along at least one lucid thought from his mother.

On the day before my scheduled departure, I woke early and drove south to the Florida Keys, knowing that Grandma was better early in the morning. The Keys were better in the morning, too. Here, a ride down U.S. 1 in a topless Jeep was the next best thing to boating. A series of bridges connected one small key to the next, with turquoise waters to the east and west. Sunrise was like a starting pistol for fishermen, though they moved out to sea at the pace of the tortoise, not the hare. The boats-some large, some barely big enough for a man and his catch-dotted the waters for miles. Another world. My normal A.M. commute would have found me stuck in traffic on my way downtown, car exhaust instead of fresh sea air.