statements, the rest of us were permitted to return to Panajachel, where we were staying, while Mateo made the trip to police headquarters in Solola.
The team was quartered at the Hospedaje Santa Rosa, a budget hotel hidden in an alleyway off Avenida el Frutal. Upon entering my room I stripped, heaped my filthy clothes in a corner, and showered, thankful that the FAFG had paid the extra quetzals for hot water. Though I’d eaten nothing since a cheese sandwich and apple at noon, fear and exhaustion squelched all desire for food. I fell into bed, despondent over the victims in the well at Chupan Ya, terrified for Molly and Carlos.
I slept badly that night, troubled by ugly dreams. Shards of infant skull. Sightless sockets. Arm bones sheathed in a rotting
It seemed there was no escape from violent death, day or night, past or present.
I awoke to screeching parrots and soft, gray dawn seeping through my shutters. Something was terribly wrong. What?
Memories of the previous night hit me like a cold, numbing wave. I drew knees to chest and lay several minutes, dreading the news but needing to know.
Flinging back the quilt, I went through my abbreviated morning ritual, then threw on jeans, T-shirt, sweatshirt, jacket, and cap.
Mateo and Elena were sipping coffee at a courtyard table, their figures backlit by salmon-pink walls. I joined them, and Senora Samines placed coffee in front of me, and served plates of
I added cream, looked at Mateo.
He spoke in English.
“Carlos took a bullet in the head, another in the neck. He’s dead.”
The coffee turned to acid in my mouth.
“Molly was hit twice in the chest. She survived the surgery, but she’s in a coma.”
I glanced at Elena. Her eyes were rimmed by lavender circles, the whites watery red.
“How?” I asked, turning back to Mateo.
“They think Carlos resisted. He was shot at close range outside the truck.”
“Will an autopsy be performed?”
Mateo’s eyes met mine, but he said nothing.
“Motive?”
“Robbery.”
“Robbery?”
“Bandits are a problem along that stretch.”
“Molly told me they’d been followed from Guatemala City.”
“I pointed that out.”
“And?”
“Molly has light brown hair, fair skin. She’s clearly gringo. The cops think they were probably targeted as a tourist couple in G City, then tailed until the truck hit a suitable ambush site.”
“In plain view along a major highway?”
Mateo said nothing.
“Molly was still wearing jewelry and a wristwatch,” I said.
“The police couldn’t find their passports or wallets.”
“Let me get this straight. Thieves followed them for over two hours, then took their wallets and left their jewelry?”
“Is that typical for highway robbery?”
He hesitated before responding.
“They might have been scared off.”
Senora Samines arrived with my eggs. I poked at them, speared a potato. Carlos and Molly had been shot for money?
I had come to Guatemala fearing government bureaucracy, intestinal bacteria, dishonest taxi drivers, pickpockets. Why was I shocked at the thought of armed robbery?
America is the leading producer of gunshot homicides. Our streets and workplaces are killing fields. Teens are shot for their Air Jordans, wives for serving the pot roast late, students for eating lunch in the high school cafeteria.
Annually, over thirty thousand Americans are killed by bullets. Seventy percent of all murders are committed with firearms. Each year the NRA spoons up propaganda, and America swallows it. Guns proliferate, and the slaughter goes on. Law enforcement no longer has an advantage in carrying arms. It only brings the officers up to
