James Grippando - A King's ransom

“You should eat something,” I said.

“I can’t.”

“It won’t do any good to starve yourself.”

“This tomato sauce is kind of nauseating.”

“As co-chef, I take serious exception.”

“Sorry. I’m just not hungry. I’ve been nibbling since five o’clock this morning.”

I did seem to recall predawn noises in the kitchen. It was all part of the screwed-up pattern. A little reading at midnight. Letter writing till 2:00 A.M. Housecleaning at three, and organizing the closets at four. Neither of us was sleeping well, but Mom was especially affected. She was accustomed to nights alone while Dad traveled for work. This time was different, however, her lying awake in the lonely king-size bed wondering if that empty space beside her might be permanent.

“Have you talked to Jenna?” she asked.

That seemed out of the blue. Mom and I hadn’t talked about her since I’d gotten back my engagement ring and washed a dollop of seagull droppings out of my hair. “No, I haven’t.”

“I noticed her name wasn’t on your list of people to call.”

“That’s because she’s my ex- fiancee.”

“Don’t be like that. She and your father were very fond of one another.”

“I know. But I’d rather just not deal with her right now.”

“Your father could use all the prayers he can get.”

Mom certainly had a way of backing me into a corner. “You’re right. I’ll drop her a line or something.”

The phone rang as we were clearing the table. Mom answered, and her eyes lit up. It was Dad’s Nicaraguan business partner, Guillermo, calling from Cartagena. He’d gone down to make funeral arrangements for the dead crewmen, arrange for transportation back to Nicaragua for the two they’d found alive so far, and generally to check on the company’s newly acquired boats that were now riddled with bullet holes.

I picked up the phone in the family room. Mom remained on the line in the kitchen.

“Any news?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said with excitement. “Police have found one of the missing.”

“Could it be Matthew?” Mom shrieked.

My heart was pounding right along with hers.

“No, no. It’s Carlos, one of the welders who was missing. The third crewman.”

I watched through the open doorway as Mom nearly collapsed in disappointment. I asked, “Is he okay?”

“Tired, but okay. These Miskitos are unbelievable. He swam for hours and finally hid in some mangroves along the coast. He was there for almost two days, afraid to come out. Finally he walked into town and found the police station.”

“Does he have any information about Matthew?” Mom asked.

“Yes. It’s good news, I think.”

“You think?” I asked tentatively.

“He saw the guerrillas pull Matthew from the water.”

“Alive?”

“Yes, alive.”

I glanced across the room toward Mom. She was sitting down, her elbow on the kitchen table as she dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “That’s good,” I said. “At least he’s alive.”

“Yes. That part is good,” he said.

I sensed there was bad news to go with it, and I worried whether Mom should hear it. Guillermo forged ahead without my encouragement.

“He says the guerrillas took Matthew away by boat. They were shouting, vowing to avenge the death of their friend with la mina .”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the guerrilla who got shot and killed in the exchange of gunfire on the shrimp boat.”

“I understood that part. I meant ‘ la mina ,’ what’s that?”

“Your father. The gold mine.”

My heart sank. Apart from Dad’s safety, that was my biggest fear: the kidnappers’ inflated expectations.

“Have you talked to the Colombian police yet?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s where I am now. They’re writing down Carlos’s statement as we speak.”

“Maybe I should fly down and speak to them myself.”

“Probably not a good idea. From what the officer tells me, you will likely receive a communication from the kidnappers in the very near future. It wouldn’t seem right to leave Cathy alone to handle that.”

I took another glance toward the kitchen. Mom had the phone to her ear. I knew she was listening. But she was now too overcome to respond.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll stay put. But let me talk with one of the officers on the case. I just want to introduce myself.”

“How’s your Spanish?”

“Pretty good. Not perfect.”

“Hold on. Let me try to find someone who can speak to you in English.”

I heard muted conversations on the line, the sounds of a busy office in the background, followed by a click. I saw that my mother had hung up. She was walking briskly toward the bedroom, another so-called allergy attack from which she’d emerge with red and puffy eyes. I felt a few pangs of pity for her, but they were mostly crowded out by my anger toward those murderers who’d dubbed my father a gold mine.

A man came on the line, speaking English with a heavy Spanish accent. “Hello, this is Officer Trujillo speaking.”

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, officer. As you can imagine, my family is very concerned-”

“ Claro ,” he said, then caught himself and continued in English. It was about as good as my Spanish. “I understand complete. Please know that we do everything possibly to bring your father safe. Judicial Police has twell hundred officers working kidnap cases.”

“That sounds very good.”

“ Si . Is very good. We all have much experience.”

“Can you tell me anything about my father? Do you know if he is safe?”

“Not for sure. But is muy importante to know most kidnaps in Colombia end with victims home safe to families. Ones who are shot are usually ones who try escape. Others are killed if trouble goes wrong when the kidnappers take the victim. Es muy bueno que we see no sign of fight at the kidnap of your father, and since he has eighty-six years of age, is very not likely that he would try escape.”

“What are you talking about? My father is fifty-one. He did try to escape, and three people were killed during the botched abduction.”

There was silence on the line. “You are Mr. Alvarez, no?”

“No. Nick Rey, from Miami.”

“My apologies, senor. Please understand, I have so many files.”

The statistics from Agent Nettles suddenly flashed in my mind. More than twenty-five hundred abductions a year. Roughly eight a day. One every three hours. No wonder this guy couldn’t keep his cases straight. “Forget it,” I said.

“I am so sorry. Do not have fear of my words,” he said, backpedaling. “Not everyone who tries escape is shot.”

“It’s all right, really. But please keep my phone number in your file and call me with any news in the case.”

I gave him all my phone numbers, and as best I could tell, he was writing them down.

“I promise you will hear from me,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, wondering if he would be calling me or the mysterious Mr. Alvarez.

I hung up, with mixed emotions. Dad was alive, or at least he’d been taken alive. But Officer Trujillo wasn’t the first person to tell me that the stronger personalities, the people bold enough to try to escape, were the ones singled out for abuse, the ones kidnappers eventually discarded as more trouble than they were worth.

That made me very afraid. My dad didn’t have a submissive personality. I knew he’d try to escape at every turn.

Mom knew it, too. That was why she cried so often.

I drew a deep breath, then walked to the bedroom to check on my mother.

The dawn of the third day was actually at sunset. Almost exactly forty-eight hours after the abduction, his blindfold finally came off. Matthew Rey shielded his eyes from the sudden burst of light, then staggered out of the back of the van, prodded from behind by the muzzle of an AK-47 assault rifle.