A Cut Above Page 13

  I hope not. I don’t want this to become my normal. Should there ever be an Andie “normal” again, if you get my drift.

  “Good night,” I whisper. Then I pat around under me, only to realize we’re in some kind of dirt-floored basement. I’m about to sleep on that dirt floor. Yuck.

  Keep your eye on the goalpost, Andie.

  As I wriggle around to try and get comfortable—comfortable? Hah!—Max reaches out, curves his arm around my shoulders, and pulls me close. “Let’s pray.”

  My heart swells big enough to burst. Is this—is Max— really real?

  As hard to believe as it is, I do sleep. I realize this when a sliver of dim light pierces the thick darkness of our cell. The trapdoor above us is lifted, and we see a large basket at the end of a thick rope. Inch by inch, it’s lowered down to us.

  “El desayuno,” a gruff male calls out. “A comer!”

  I scramble to my feet. I don’t want our breakfast to spill out over the dirt floor. “It’s nice to know they don’t plan to starve us.”

  “Wait.” Max says. “Move slowly.”

  He comes to my side, nods, and I reach out for the food. Before I can grab the basket, though, he takes hold of the rope and yanks hard.

  The man above yells, then tumbles down. What happens next is a blur, but by the time Max is done, our jailor is tied with Max’s belt, his mouth stuffed with one of Max’s shirtsleeves.

  “Here’s the deal,” Max says after we’ve all scarfed down enough to keep us going. “I’m going to hold you on my shoulders. I need you to get up there and find something strong and fixed to tie the rope to.”

  “Me!” I’m embarrassed to admit the word comes out in a scared squeal. “But what if—”

  “Forget the what-ifs. This is the only chance we’re going to get. I’m not about to let it pass us by.”

  I realize the truth to his words and gulp my fears away. “Okay. I’ll go up there, but I don’t know how we’re going to get you out of here. And I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  “Me neither. Just go tie the rope to . . . oh, I don’t know, a beam or something structural. We’ll figure it out as we go.” I get the picture. “You’re going to climb up, aren’t you? But what about Laura? She can’t stand or walk or climb or much of anything.”

  Max gives me a gentle nudge toward the edge of the opening overhead. “Once I’m up there with you, Laura can tie the rope around her waist, and you and I will pull her up. Think you can do that, Laura?”

  “I can do that,” the teen says, hope palpable in her voice.

  “Sounds good to me,” I add. “I just hope it works as well as it sounds.”

  “It will. Your job’s to pray we don’t bump into one of his pals.”

  “Is the rope long enough?”

  “It’s got to be long enough, Andie. It’s all we have. Let’s go.”

  Max wraps the rope around my waist, and I tie it in a loose enough knot. I don’t want to have to fiddle around with a tight knot once I’m above ground. Then I send up a silent prayer, take hold of Max’s hand, and slowly—oh, so slowly—climb onto his broad shoulders. He sways a time or two under my weight. Panic threatens.

  Wonder what he thinks about my hips now?

  After a precarious moment, though, Max stands firm. I find I can curl my fingers as far down as the first or second knuckle over the edge of the opening above if I stretch full out.

  “Ready?” he asks. “I’m going to grab your ankles and push up. I hope I can hold you long enough for you to get a good hold, and then you can pull yourself out.”

  “You know I haven’t joined a gym since I came home to Louisville, don’t you?”

  “This isn’t the time to kid around.”

  “I’m not kidding. Not at all. I really don’t know how much strength I have in my arms.”

  “Trust God to make you able. And remember. If this doesn’t work, we’re stuck. Who knows for how long? In this hole. With what’s-his-face over there.”

  The thought of spending more time in the subterranean jail gives my determination a healthy dose of starch. I square my shoulders, tip up my chin, and reach. Inch by inch, Max lifts me up into the opening. I feel the strain in his muscles as he quivers from the effort. Knowing how hard he’s trying wipes out my last bit of fear. I have to do as much.

  With a burst of energy, Max pushes upward. My head breaches the opening. I reach out, plant both palms on the wood floor, and push . . . push . . . push. Muscles screaming against the unaccustomed effort, I get high enough to fold myself at the waist, half in the hole, half on the floor.

  “One last push!” I ask Max.

  Somehow, don’t ask me how, he comes up with a final burst, and gives me the momentum to slide forward. Once my hips clear the edge, I drag myself all the way out, with my hands and elbows, until I can haul my legs up too. Then I collapse where I wind up. I pant from the exertion. And promise myself to sign up at the nearest gym the minute I get home.

  Because I am going home.

  “Hey!” Max calls out. “You okay?”

  “Yep, muscle man. I am. Give me a minute to find somewhere to tie the rope, okay?”

  Dark as the room still is, I realize it’s some kind of large shed or small barn. The main doors are to the right of the trap door. And it’s those doors that provide me with an anchor. A tall, inch-thick rod runs floor-to-ceiling, holding one of the metal doors fixed while the other can swing open. The bar sits deep in a hole in the cement threshold.

  “Found it!” I call out. “I have something to tie the rope to.”

  “Just do it—and fast. I don’t know how long we’ll have before they send one of this one’s pals to find out what happened to him.”

  I unwrap the rope from my waist, slip one end of it around the rod, and tie a number of tight knots to secure it in place. I tug to test; it’s firm.

  “Here you go.” I drop the loose end to Max.

  Immediately, it goes taut. Max grunts, breathes hard, huffs.

  “Can I help you?”

  A pained “No” rises out of the trapdoor opening.

  I hold my breath as the harsh breathing continues. The rope wiggles from Max’s efforts. The rod scrapes against the concrete. I wonder if it’s as loud from the outside as it sounds to me. Maybe, hopefully, it’s my anxiety magnifying the sound.

  After what feels like hours but can only have been seconds, I see one hand, then the other, top the open edge. Then, with the rope still tight in his clutch, Max plants his hands on the floor and pushes himself up.

  He drops onto the floor, a successful smile on his lips.

  My relief is so great I almost throw my arms around him and give him a hug. Almost.

  Max claps his hands once, twice, then stands and heads for the door.

  I frown. “Hey! There’s an injured girl down there, remember?”

  “Yes, Andie, I remember.” His fake patience doesn’t win him any points with me. But he goes on. “I’m going to check on the rope. I weigh a couple of pounds”—he waves down his large frame—“and it might have loosened some. I don’t want Laura to fall again.”

  Swallow me, earth. He’d been thinking of Laura all along. “Sorry,” I mumble sheepishly.

  Once he tightens the knots again, he returns to the hole. “Come here with me.” He points to a spot a few steps to his left. “I want you to reach out to her once I pull her up high enough. The less she does with that leg, the better off she’ll be.”

  Turning, he calls down instructions for Laura. The girl’s voice reveals her fear, but she’s brave and game to give Max’s plan a try. I’m impressed.

  And then we go to work. Less than five minutes later, Max pulls the teen to the edge of the hole, and I reach out to grasp her hands. I pull, help her out. Once she’s out, Max unties the rope. He hurries over, and with painstaking gentleness, eases the injured girl to our side.

  “Thank you,” she says, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “Lean on me,” M
ax says. Then, eyes serious, lips tight, jaw squared, he adds, “Don’t thank me yet. We have a long way to go. Anything can happen.”

  A chill runs down my back.

  1100

  My heart beats loud enough for Doña Rosario’s goons to hear. Even though they’re nowhere to be seen when we open the shed’s door. It’s early morning, and since the spread appears to be a working hacienda, I expect to see workers working. But the place looks deserted.

  The isolation of the hacienda’s setting strikes me. We’re trying to escape but there might not be any. We might wander— and wander and wander and wander—endlessly before we find any help.

  When I look at Max, I see the same concern reflected in his tight jaw, his grim expression, his narrowed eyes. The guy’s not stupid; he knows what we’re up against. So does Laura.

  “You shouldn’t take me along,” she says in a soft whisper when Max gathers her into his arms. “I’m only going to slow you down. Go for help. They’ve been feeding me. I’ll be fine until you get back.”

  Yeah, right. Even she doesn’t believe her words. Her voice trembles and her liquid-chocolate eyes widen with fear. No way will we leave her to their not-so-tender mercies.

  “We’re going to need help with the language,” Max says. “You’re our translator. How could we leave you behind?”

  I smile at him, grateful for his sensitivity. Not only is he not about to leave her behind, but he’s also given her true purpose in our mission. No wonder I’m crazy about the guy.

  Whoa! Where’d that come from? Crazy about Max. I know I care about him. Oh, let’s be honest here: I’m getting used to the thought of loving him. But crazy about him? Head-over-heels, gaga, loony tunes?

  I look at him, drinking in his strong frame, his determination, his decency, and I accept the truth. Okay. Fine. So I am crazy about the guy.

  What am I going to do about it?

  Especially right now, out here, and under our circumstances.

  Again, the excess of ridiculousness in our situation hits me. Here, in the middle of Back-of-Beyond, Colombia, there’s nothing I’m going to do about my feelings for Max. Other than pray we get out of this mess so we can maybe—just maybe—explore what direction God’s going to take those feelings.

  “You ladies ready?” Max asks.

  I snort. “Never been so ready in my life.”

  “If you’re sure I’m not going to be a problem,” Laura whispers.

  “Hey!” I say. “We need you just as much as you need us.”

  “Let’s go,” Max says.

  We hurry off into that vast emptiness of flat grasslands. The sun is starting to rise, and as it goes up, so does the quantity of sweat we produce. Poor Max. Not only is he hurrying to put as much distance between the hacienda and us as possible, but he’s also carrying Laura. I have no room to whine, not even when the “dew” pours into my eyes, making them burn.

  “Do you have any idea where we are?” I ask Laura after a while of traveling through a whole lot of nothing.

  “Not really. I know we’re in the eastern part of the country, where there are huge cattle ranches and lots of land for the animals, but I don’t know any more than that.”

  “Any cities out here?”

  “Not anything important.”

  I’d been afraid that would be her answer. All we can do is keep on keeping on until we find help. And water. Food would be good too.

  After about two hours go by, I cast my zillionth look over my shoulder. “Wonder why they haven’t come after us.”

  “Does it matter?” Max asks, his voice tired—understandably.

  My heart goes out to him, but there’s nothing I can do to help. “Not really, but I didn’t expect to get this far.”

  “Doña Rosario spends a lot of time in Bogotá,” Laura says. “When she’s gone, I imagine her servants do what they want.”

  I roll my eyes. “When the cat’s away . . .”

  Max gives me a crooked grin. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Those poor cats you just insulted.”

  We fall silent again, and I go back to praying. Then, as the fireball better known as the sun hits the midway point in the sky—and I’m positive I can’t force my exhausted body to take another step—I notice something far, far in front of us, just a bit closer to us than the horizon.

  “Am I imagining things, or are those buildings up there?”

  Max looks in the direction I point, and relief brightens his tired face. “Eureka! Water and someplace to sit.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Laura says, a tear rolling down her face.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Max answers. “Wait until we have you to a hospital, and a doctor puts your leg in a cast.” He doesn’t break the rhythm of his pace.

  With our hopes renewed, we come up with enough strength to make our way to the smattering of buildings. But when we arrive, we look at each other in dismay. I have to unleash superhuman power to keep from groaning out loud.

  I’d hoped for a town. Even a small village would’ve done. But no. What we’ve found is just seventeen hardscrabble structures clustered where a patchwork of agricultural fields meet. I don’t see power lines. There’ll be no phone service way out here.

  But I have to recognize God’s mercy in leading us here. “Hey, guys. Things are looking up,” I say with a smile. “I’m sure there’s water here.”

  Laura smiles. “I’d love a drink.”

  Max squares his shoulders; a major feat, since he’s still holding the girl. “Well, let’s get you one.”

  We approach the nearest house. To get there, we have to skirt a pigpen, where a half-dozen oinkers greet us with grunts and squeals. And guess what? They’re dirty and stinky. The term pigpen? It’s well coined.

  Across the path from the pigs, a bunch of clucking chickens are scratching the dirt in front of a small coop. Off to our right, I spot a small herd of cattle in one of the fields.

  Still holding on to my positive vibe, I say, “I’m sure we can get help here. These people have to have a way to get their animals to market. I’m not picky. Whatever works to get us where we have to go.”

  Max grins. “You’re right. We’re here, and that’s a road— not our idea of a freeway or a turnpike, but their version of interstate travel. A truck . . . a cart . . . a bike . . . who cares? All we need now is to figure out a way to get all the way over there—to Bogotá.” He glances down at Laura. “Are you ready to earn your ride?”

  Her brown eyes twinkle. “More than ready.”

  We approach the door to the farmhouse, and I knock. A tiny, white-haired lady opens up, suspicion on her wrinkled face. A barrage of rapid-fire Spanish hits us the minute she spots us.

  Laura responds, then points to her swollen purpled leg. I wince, well aware how much it must be hurting. The woman’s eyes widen, compassion softens her expression, she steps back, and finally gestures us inside. Before I step into the dark room, I pray for God’s protection. Who knows what’s lurking in the shadows of the tiny house.

  Once my eyes adjust to the dim light indoors, I scan my surroundings. The interior is as stark and poor as the exterior. The only furnishings consist of an old sofa, probably the same vintage as our hostess, a sturdy table, four chairs around it, and two stools across from the sofa.

  In the corner to the left of the sitting area, I notice a three-foot-tall basket piled high with blankets—this area probably doubles as guest room when the need arises. Behind the table, three shelves sag under the weight of bowls, plates, cups, and crockery of various sizes. Directly underneath, I see a well-used broom. Two doors lead off at each end of the back wall.

  While everything is well used and old, it all is sparkling clean. I see no dirt anywhere; what I do see is an abundance of pride of ownership. This family might not have much, but they take care of what they have.

  As my gaze takes another trip around the room, I notice the colorful picture of Jesus on the rear wall between the two doors. Our hostess is also proud of her faith
.

  It seems way clear we have nothing to fear from Anita, as Laura introduces the lady. She guides Max to the sofa, where she helps him make Laura as comfortable as possible. Within seconds, our hostess, chattering all along, trots out the right-hand door, then returns, holding out a flimsy wooden crate to prop up the girl’s injured leg.

  Laura thanks her, but Anita responds with an embarrassed smile and a shrug. She hurries back out the right doorway, and before we can wonder why she’s disappeared, she returns, a glistening aluminum pitcher and three glasses in hand.

  I guzzle down my portion and ask for more. So does Max, and Laura too. Anita returns to the kitchen for a refill. This time, when she comes back, she holds the pitcher in one hand, a plate of steaming arepas in the other.

  Okay. I’ll confess. I make a pig of myself. I had no idea how hungry I was until I smelled those delicious corn cakes. And it seems Anita has no end to her supply of arepa.

  Once we’re done, our hostess insists we all lie down to take siestas.

  “She doesn’t have to tell me twice,” Max says, then yawns.

  Which sets me off.

  And then Laura.

  But I have to admit, the nap in one of two small rooms off the left-hand side of the living area does me a world of good. By the time I wake up, there’s no light coming in through the small window high on the wall—we’d arrived early in the afternoon, with the sun only a hair over the middle of the sky. And while I can’t sleep anymore, at least not right now, I notice Laura still dozing on the other single bed in the room.

  I step out into the hall and head toward the front of the house, following the murmur of voices, those of a man and a woman. The woman is Anita, but the male voice is one I don’t recognize. The little hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. Could this be one of Doña Rosario’s henchmen? Henchmen? Oooh! Love that word. Never thought I’d have reason to use it, but—well, you never know what life will bring. That’s why I call on God to guide me.

  In the living area, a young Colombian sits at the table, an empty plate before him. When I walk in, he glances over, smiles, but then returns to his meal. I breathe again. He’s okay. He looks so much like our hostess I’m pretty sure he must be her son.