beach.
Sampson stood up from his hiding spot in the deep island brush. He waved something that looked like a silver wand. What he was actually holding was a longdistance microphone.
Two FBI agents got up and waved, too. They stood beside Sampson. They'd all been out in the bush since before seven that morning. The agents were as red as lobsters around the face and arms. Sampson probably had the tan of his life, also.
“My friend Sampson up there. He's recorded everything you said since we started our walk.”
Jezzie closed her eyes for several seconds. She hadn't expected I would go this far. She didn't think I had it in me. “You'll tell us now how you murdered Maggie Rose,” I demanded.
Her eyes opened and they looked small and black. “You don't get it. You just don't get it, do you?” she said.
'What don't I get, Jezzie? You tell me what I don't get. I I
“You keep looking for the good in people. But it's not there! Your case will get blown up. You'll look like a fool in the end, a complete and utter fool. They'll all turn on you again.”
“Maybe you're right,” I said, “but at least I'll have this moment.”
T
Jezzie moved to hit me, but I blocked her fist with a forearm. Her body twisted and she went down. The hard fall was a lot less than she deserved. Jezzie's face was a brittle mask of surprise. “That's a start, Alex,” she said from her sandy seat on the beach. “You're becoming a bastard, too. Congratulations. ”
“ Nah, ” I said to Jezzie. “I'm just fine. There's nothing wrong with me.” i I let the FBI agents and Sampson make the formal arrest of Jezzie Flanagan. Then I took a skiff back to the hotel. I packed and was on my way back to Washington within the hour.
Along Came A Spider
CHAPTER 86
WO DAys after we returned to D.C., Sampson and I were back on the road. We were headed for Uyuni, Bolivia. We had reason to hope and believe that we might have finally found Maggie Rose Dunne. Jezzie had talked and talked. Jezzie had traded information. She had refused to talk to the Bureau, though. She'd traded with me.
Uyuni is in the Andes Mountains, one hundred and ninety-one miles south of Oruro. The way to get there is to land a small plane in Rfo Mulato, then go by jeep or van to Uyuni.
A Ford Explorer held eight of us for the final leg of the difficult trip. I was in the minivan with Sampson, two special agents from Treasury, the U.S. ambassador to Bolivia, our driver, and Thomas and Katherine Rose Dunne.
Charles Chakely and Jezzie had both been willing to trade information about Maggie Rose during the last grueling thirty-six hours. The butchered body of Mike
Devine had been found in his Washington apartment. The manhunt for Gary Soneji/Mu,-,phy had intensified after the body was discovered. But so far, nothing. Gary was certainly watching the story of our trip to Bolivia on TV. Gary was watching his story.
Chakely and Jezzie told virtually the same tale about the kidnapping. There had been an opportunity to take the ten-million-dollar ransom and get away with it. They couldn't return the girl. They needed us to believe that Soneji/Murphy was the kidnapper. The girl could dispute that. They'd drawn the line at killing Maggie Rose, though. Or so they said back in Washington.
Sampson and I were quiet inside the minivan for the last miles of the trip through the Andes. So was everyone else.
I watched the Dunnes as we approached Uyuni. They sat together quietly, a little distant from each other. As Katherine had told me, losing Maggie Rose had nearly destroyed their marriage. I was reminded of how much I had liked them in the beginning. I still liked Katherine Rose. We had talked for a while during the trip. She thanked me with genuine emotion and I would never forget that.
I hoped their little girl was waiting safely at the end of this long and horrible ordeal.... I thought about Maggie Rose Dunne-a little girl I had never met, and was about to meet soon. I thought about all the prayers said for her, the placards held outside a D.C. courthouse, the candles burning in so many windows. Sampson elbowed me as we drove through the village. “Look up the hill there, Alex. I won't say this makes it all worthwhile. But maybe it comes close.”
The minivan was climbing a steep hill in the village of Uyuni. Tin and wood shacks lined both sides of what was virtually an alleyway cut into rock. Smoke spiraled from a couple of the tin rooftops. The narrow lane seemed to continue straight up into the Andes Mountains.
Maggie Rose was there waiting for us halfway up the road.
The eleven-year-old girl stood in front of one of the nearly identical shacks. She was with several other members of a family called Patino. She had been with them for nearly two years. It looked as if there were a dozen other children in the family.
From a hundred yards away, as the van strained up the rutted dirt road, we could all see her clearly. Maggie Rose wore the same kind of loose shirt, cotton shorts, and th@ngs as the other Patino children, but her blond hair made her stand out. She was tan; she appeared to be in good health. She looked just like her beautiful mother.
The Patino family had no idea who she really was. They had never heard of Maggie Rose Dunne in Uyuni. Or in nearby Pulacayo, or in Ubina eleven miles over the high and mighty Andes Mountains. We knew that much from the Bolivian officials and police.
