But mercifully, the rain lulled him to sleep.
He awoke to the sound of birds, then voices, human voices. He knew it was day, the rain had stopped, and the sun singed through the humid air and burned his skin.
He heard voices once again; this time he assumed the voices to be nothing more than the beginning of another vision. He did not feel elation or fear; he only lay there, barely alive but drifting away.
The voices were soft at first, but they became louder, as if the speakers were getting closer. Court began to realize he was not dreaming, was not imagining this, and he felt a faint sense of concern. He had no weapon, not like it mattered — he wouldn’t have been able to thumb a safety catch or pull a trigger, much less identify a threat and point a weapon towards a target.
The voices were all around him now, and they were speaking Laotian. They had found him, and as far as he was concerned, they could have him. They could shoot him right here; that would surely be preferable to them dragging him up the hill and hoisting him into a vehicle only to bounce around on the shitty roads on his way back to a cell in which he would certainly die within hours.
Fuck it, he thought, his mind incredibly lucid on this one subject. He’d fight them. These little bastards weren’t taking him anywhere.
Two men knelt over him, peeled off the few banana leaves that were left covering his body. He reached up to punch one, but his arm just sort of wiggled a little next to his body. There was no swing, no punch.
More men came, and he was lifted off the ground and into the air; he screamed in protest and then in pain as his left arm was yanked in a different direction from the rest of his body. He felt himself being hauled up the hill; he heard the men’s guns clanking against metal on their belts as the weapons swung free; his legs were dropped once, and men fell along with them, yelled and barked at one another until he was lifted up again.
The steady slap, slap of boots in mud as they left the muddy pond behind.
Their clipped and impenetrable language felt like ice picks into his ears.
They hoisted him onto the road finally and hauled him towards a black van. Gentry was carried headfirst and faceup, but his head hung upside down and bounced with the strides of the soldiers. The back of the black van opened, and it was dark inside. The men spoke quickly and gruffly amongst themselves, as if they were arguing with one another. Their uniforms meant nothing to him, but their weapons were AKs and long SKSs, the same as the local cops and the prison guards.
They slid him into the back of the van, and the doors shut. The van lurched and sped off, bouncing on the gravel alongside the paved road. Court tried to lift his head but gave up, rolled it from side to side. It took a moment, but he soon realized none of the soldiers had gotten in with him.
He was alone.
Huh?
No, he was not alone. A figure moved into the back from the front passenger seat; Court’s weak neck muscles had dropped his head back on the hard surface of the van, and it rolled towards the wall.
A hand went to his forehead as if taking his temperature. “Bad news, Sally, no luck on the root beer. I brought you some Beerlao. It’s the local brew. That work?”
Court smiled and even that hurt; it stung his sunburned face. But a painkilling wave of relief began in his heart and shot out across his body in all directions. A new energy forced his neck muscles to fire one more time. He turned towards Eddie. He felt tears welling in his eyes, and he fought them. His voice was faint and rough. “Is it cold, at least?”
Eddie shook his head. His eyes were wide and relaxed. That big Eddie Gamble smile widened as he spoke. “Hot as hell, amigo. Tastes a bit like yak piss. Sorry.”
“The soldiers. Are they from Thailand?”
“I didn’t leave the country. You didn’t have time for me to get out and for some other group to come back and find you, so I went to Vientiane. Called in some favors I’d earned with an insurgent force. They aren’t half as badass as they think they are, but I figured they were good enough to help me scoop a guy out of the mud and toss him into a van.”
Court hoisted an arm up with all his might, and Gamble grabbed it and shook it. Court said, “Thanks for coming back.”
Gamble grinned, pulled a large backpack from between the front seats, opened it, began pulling out bags of fluid and syringes and medicines. “You start crying, and I’m gonna tell your buddies in the CIA. You’ll never hear the end of it.” He prepped an IV and jabbed it into Gentry’s arm. “Let’s get you home, amigo.”
FOURTEEN
At eleven o’clock in the morning Court stood in a slow-moving line to buy a bus ticket at the Central Camionera de Puerto Vallarta, the city’s main bus terminal. His green canvas bag lay on the floor in front of him. Every minute or two he’d kick it forwards and take a step along with it.
He’d awoken early, folded his bedding, descended the stairs silently, stepped over guests sleeping on the floor, and then left alone through the kitchen door. He’d taken the first bus of the morning from San Blas, and he’d stared out the window at the Pacific Ocean for much of the three-hour journey. Thinking of Eddie. Eddie’s family. Eddie’s sister. Court tried to shake the thoughts from his head a number of times but found it hard. Long-dormant emotions tugged at him. Longing. Loneliness. Lust.
He so needed to get the fuck out of here.
To that end, he had a plan. He’d buy a ticket to Guadalajara, and once there, after a day or two, he’d catch a bus to Mexico City. From there he would make his way to Tampico. He imagined it taking him a week or more to cross the country at the pace he planned on traveling.
The station was busy, but the pace of the line picked up a bit. He was only four from the counter when a security scan of the room caused his shoulders to pull back and alarm bells to go off in his head.
Entering the station with the charging, purposeful gait of a military officer was Captain Chuck Cullen.
Cullen scanned the room himself; Court had no doubt the old man was looking for him, trying to pick him out of the mass of travelers. Gentry turned away out of force of habit; he knew he could duck the man and remain invisible until he left.
But there was something about Cullen’s walk, his intense, seeking expression.
Court knew something was wrong.
The Gray Man came out of the shadows, hefted his backpack, stepped out of the line, and walked towards the only other American in the crowded hall.
“What’s up?” he asked, warily.
Cullen did not hide his surprise. He’d been hopelessly searching for a man who had just somehow materialized in front of him. He recovered. “Elena said you didn’t wait around to say good-bye.”
Court shrugged. “Tell her I said good-bye.”
Cullen glared at Gentry for a while. He clearly wanted to say something, but twice stopped himself from speaking. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Young man. I don’t quite have a handle on who or what you are, but I have the impression that you may be helpful right now. And, whoever the hell you are, I do believe you want to do right by Eddie’s family.”
Court cocked his head slightly but nodded. Said slowly, “Absolutely.”
The captain nodded. Continued. “Elena and most of her family are going to the rally downtown.”
Court wasn’t surprised. “Yeah, that’s what she said last night.”
“I live downtown. This morning I woke to the sound of a car with a PA system driving up my street; the announcer was telling everyone to get out to the memorial this morning and protest the government’s assassins. They’ve been talking about it all morning on the radio. There’s a boatload of ill will on the local stations towards the Policía Federal’s assassination attempt, and the DJs are encouraging certain… elements to come out and make themselves heard. Supporters of de la Rocha and his Black Suits. The authorities are saying they are expecting thousands; they’ll be roping off streets. It just sounds… off. I am going to be there just in case something happens. I’d like you to come, too. I’m not as young as I used to be.”