Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

“Come help me cut this thing up,” she said. “This may be the last food we see for a while.”

She ignored the dead women all around her as she opened a bag that sat next to the spit. She pulled out carving knives and tongs, as well as several dishes. Sumner made an impatient sound and strode over to her. He grabbed the bag, turned it over, and dumped its entire contents into the dirt. He picked the pig up and shoved it in, whole. He threw the knives in, stood up, slung the bag over his shoulder, and pointed to the jungle.

“I liked you better when you had a fever,” Emma snapped at him.

Sumner headed back into the forest.

Emma followed, still simmering with anger and frustration. It didn’t take long for the second helicopter to arrive. This one sank below the tree line and shot along the stream. Sumner and Emma ran into the growth along the banks, crouched behind a bush, and watched as the helicopter flew by. Emma stared hard at its sides. It didn’t bear any markings. A man in jeans and a black polo shirt sat in an open door with a rifle in his hands. Another sat in the passenger side and scanned the area with binoculars. They shot past Emma and Sumner’s hiding spot and disappeared around a corner. Emma slid the backpack and tent off her shoulders and let them drop to the ground. She rubbed at her sore shoulders.

“Just give me a minute. This thing is heavy,” she said.

Sumner just stood next to her, waiting.

Emma pulled the pack back up. “Let’s go.”

Sumner took it away from her.

“How’s your wound?” she asked. “The strap will rest right along it and might inflame it again. Frankly, I can’t afford to have you fall back into a fever.”

“And yet that’s when you like me so well,” Sumner shot back.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder; she hauled the bag with the pig onto her back, and they continued downstream.

27

THEIR PROGRESS WAS RIDICULOUSLY SLOW. IT WAS OVER EIGHTY degrees and the humidity made it feel as though they were walking through fog. The banks of the stream consisted mainly of mud, and it sucked at their shoes. Every so often Emma would see a snake slither past. One was black with orange bands in a geometric pattern. None of the wildlife seemed inclined to attack them, but she kept her distance nonetheless.

Clouds of bugs hovered in the air. Emma and Sumner waved at them with their hands, but there were too many. They flew into Emma’s eyes and ears and clung to the edges of her lips. One crawled up her nose and she snorted like crazy to get it out.

“God, that’s disgusting,” she said.

Sumner looked at her and nodded as he smacked at the black buzzing veil of bugs.

They pitched camp. This time they built a fire and warmed the pig. Sumner shaved pieces off the side and handed them to Emma. She pulled out the small bottle of red wine from the pack.

Sumner burst into laughter.

“You’re like Mary Poppins. Always pulling something good out of that bag.” A smile creased his face and real delight shone in his eyes. Emma was stunned by the reaction, but recovered enough to grin back at him.

“Fresh meat deserves a fine wine.” She held the bottle out like a sommelier at the Ritz. “Sir. Bolla, Valpolicella, vintage yesterday. Our finest offering.” She twisted off the screw top and took a sip, rolled it around in her mouth, and swallowed. “Excellent.” She gave it to Sumner and he swallowed his own large gulp. They ripped into the pork.

“God, this is great.” The pork fell apart in Emma’s mouth and tasted like heaven. Sumner nodded and carved some more for her.

They ate in silence. Sumner retreated into himself and his private thoughts. It was as if the burst of laughter had never occurred. After eating, Emma shoved a small steel bowl she’d pilfered back at Mathilde’s checkpoint into her backpack and used it as a pillow. She stared at Sumner, thinking about his shot at the helicopter.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“My father.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Minnesota. Guns came with the territory.”

“What do you do for the Southern Hemisphere Drug Defense?”

“I monitor unidentified planes flying under radar in and out of Miami.”

“Ah. So that explains your extensive knowledge of the habits of drug runners and your excellent Spanish.”

Sumner shrugged and stayed silent.

“How many languages do you speak?” she said.

“Four.”

Emma was impressed. “I speak two. Well, three, really. English, German, and Latin. As a scientist, Latin is the language I probably use the most, which is odd because it’s a dead language. Is German one of the four you speak?”

Sumner nodded. She wanted to press him for more personal information but decided that further interrogation wasn’t necessary. Besides, his one-syllable answers made for slow going. They had plenty of time to get acquainted, and the mosquitoes were out and eating her alive.

“I’m headed to the tent. I’ve had enough of bugs for one day,” she said.

Sumner nodded again and continued to eat the pork. Emma scrambled into the tent, smashing two mosquitoes that had found their way in behind her. She rolled onto her side, but rather than sleep she found herself waiting for Sumner to join her. There was something reassuring about his quiet presence. She liked that he rarely spoke unless it was required, and that he hadn’t been swayed by Mathilde’s beauty into relaxing his caution. Emma had dealt with intense people before. Many of her ultramarathon friends had the same quiet intensity, and she herself could not be described as a social butterfly, far from it.

She also liked that he seemed at ease with the isolation. In Emma’s experience, few people were so content with themselves as to spend long periods of time alone, and the ones who were tended to be damaged in some way. She had the feeling that this man might be one of the few who could handle both isolation and society with aplomb.

Sumner pushed aside the netting door and crawled into the tent, taking care not to touch her. Emma pretended to sleep while he arranged himself against the far wall. He lay down on his side, facing her. The nights were so dark that Emma couldn’t see anything, least of all Sumner’s face, but she had the distinct impression that he was awake and staring in her direction. She stayed still, and after fifteen minutes more, she heard him sigh. She fell asleep.

28

EMMA CALDRIDGE LIVED IN A CONDOMINIUM COMPLEX IN THE South Pointe area of Miami Beach. The complex occupied an entire block on Second Avenue. Close enough to walk to the beach, but far enough to allow for some peace. Stromeyer stood in front of Emma’s door while she watched Miriam Steinberg, the chairman of Emma’s condo association, put a key into the lock. Mrs. Steinberg wore cotton sweatpants with a matching cotton top and spangled flip-flops, and carried a huge straw tote bag as a purse.

“I don’t know what to think, what with you coming with a warrant and all,” Mrs. Steinberg said. Stromeyer sought to put her at ease.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about. I’m in charge of looking into the victims’ lives in order to get background on them. You needn’t worry.” Mrs. Steinberg shook her head.

“The poor girl. Such a tragedy.” The door swung open. “There. Just close it behind you. It’ll lock. I’ll come by later and throw the dead bolt.”

Stromeyer stepped into a small living room lined with windows. Sunlight streamed in through open curtains. The room was decorated in browns and greens with a mixture of modern furniture pieces and a few antiques thrown in to break up the minimalism. Tall palm plants in large planters occupied the corners, near sliding French doors that opened onto a small terrace. A flat-screen television sat on a modern wood credenza. Next to it was a Bose Wave stereo. To the right of the living room was a narrow hallway with two doors. To the left, in an L shape, was a small dining area, and farther left, behind the wall that held the television, was a small, square kitchen.