orange juice, and other good things.
“It was nice of you to knock,” said Remi.
“Nobody said you can’t have any privacy,” said Senora Velasquez. “You just can’t leave yet.”
“Yet?”
“People have been listening to what Father Gomez and Dr. Huerta say about you. I think we’ll all meet in the afternoon, and you can be on your way after that.”
“That’s a relief,” said Sam. “But I’m glad they didn’t let us out before breakfast. That food smells so good.”
“Yes it does,” said Remi. “You’re very kind to us.”
Senora Velasquez slid the tray under the bars, and Sam picked it up and set it on the shelf that served as his bunk. “I wish we had chairs and things,” said Senora Velasquez. “We weren’t expecting anyone like you.”
“Thank you for what you’ve done.”
As Senora Velasquez went out the door, there was no mistaking the sound of a big bolt being slid into place.
Just as they finished their breakfast, they heard the morning silence of the little town broken by the sound of a truck laboring up the long hill to the main street. They could hear the transmission whining, the engine’s revolutions speeding up on the last hundred yards, and then the engine idling in the street in front of the church. After a moment, there was a man shouting, and then other men jumping from the truck to the pavement, and then running footsteps.
Sam and Remi looked at each other. Sam stepped to the space below the tiny, high window in the wall, bent his knees, and knitted together the fingers of both his hands to make a step for Remi. She put her foot in his hands and he lifted her up. She grasped the bars of the little window and looked out.
Men in a mixture of camouflaged fatigues, T-shirts, khakis and blue jeans ran from the truck and entered buildings along the main street. They kicked in doors and shouted at people to come out to the street. “They’re rounding up the townspeople,” she said.
Men, women, and children came outside, looking confused and worried. They joined their friends and neighbors, adding to the growing crowd. Groups of armed men ran up the side streets and brought back more people. “They’re gathering the whole town.”
The cab of the truck opened and two men got out. “It’s the two men!” Remi whispered.
“What two men?”
“The ones who tried to kill us for Sarah Allersby. The ones from Spain. The one you painted blue.”
“How does he look?”
“He looks sunburned but still has a trace of a blue tinge, like a dead man.”
“I can’t wait to see him.”
Outside, Russell and Ruiz stepped to the bed of the truck, climbed up, and used it for a stage. Russell took out a thick sheaf of legal documents and handed it to Ruiz, picked up a bullhorn, and spoke. “Testing.” The word was loud, echoing from the hills. He held it for Ruiz, who read the Spanish text.
“Citizens of Santa Maria de los Montanas,” he said. “Your town is situated in the middle of a tract of land that has been set aside as an archaeological preserve. In five days, you will be removed and taken to a new town a few miles from here. You will be provided with a place to live and given employment in exchange for your cooperation.”
An old man stepped out of the crowd. He wore an ill-fitting blue sport coat and an old pair of khaki pants. He stood near the truck and spoke in a loud voice. “I am Carlos Padilla, mayor of Santa Maria.” He turned to his people. “These men want to move us to the Estancia Guerrero. The work they offer is growing marijuana, and we would live in the barracks they built years ago when the gangsters moved in. They’ll charge us more for rent than they pay us for the work, so we will always owe them money and can never leave. The land we’re on has been ours for twenty centuries. Don’t give it up to be slaves.”
Ruiz read on into the bullhorn. “You will all sign a paper, accepting the offer of relocation, housing, and a job. Doing so will end any claim you might have to land in or around the town of Santa Maria de los Montanas.”
Russell jumped down from the truck, holding a paper. He went to old Carlos Padilla, pulled a pen from his pocket, and held it out to the old man. “Here. You can be the first to sign.”
“He’s trying to get the mayor to sign,” Remi whispered.
The answer was loud. “I would rather die than sign that.”
One of the men from the truck waved his arm, and four men rushed the mayor. They slipped a loop of rope over him and tightened it under his arms, threw the end of the rope over a large limb of a tree beside the road, hoisted him up, and tied it so he hung there.
“No!” Remi whispered. “No!”
Sam said, “What are they doing?”
The man who had waved his arm took out a pistol and fired a round through the mayor’s head. All of the witnesses, including Remi, groaned in horror.
Sam said, “What was that shot?”
“They killed the mayor.”
Ruiz spoke into the bullhorn. “Let no one move his body from this spot. We will come back in five days. If he’s not here then, we’ll hang five others up there in his place. If this paper is not signed by every one of you, we will put ten who have not signed up there and ask again.”
“Did you understand that?” Remi whispered to Sam.
“I’m afraid I did.”
Russell stepped to the nearest building, which was the church. He nailed the papers to the front door. Then he and the other men climbed back into the truck. They turned around in the space in front of the church and drove back to the crest of the hill and began to coast down the long road in the direction of the Estancia.
The wails of women began immediately and soon reached the window of Sam and Remi’s cell. Remi said, “They’re gone.” She jumped to the floor.
A half hour later, they heard footsteps in the outer office. The plank door opened and several people filed in — Senora Velasquez; Father Gomez; Dr. Huerta; Pepe, the mechanic; Senor Alvarez, the restaurant owner; and the two farmers who had volunteered to dig their graves. Father Gomez said, “Do you know what happened?”
“Yes,” said Remi.
Senora Velasquez unlocked their cell, and they all walked through the office, where Sam’s and Remi’s backpacks sat. Dr. Huerta went to his office two doors down the street and returned with a wheeled stretcher. He wheeled it across the street to a spot below the hanging body of the mayor. He and Sam held the rope taut while one of the farmers produced a knife and cut the rope so they could lower the mayor onto the stretcher. They lifted the stretcher to straighten the legs, covered the mayor with the blanket, and pushed him to Dr. Huerta’s infirmary. Many of the townspeople followed them in and others stood outside.
Inside the office, Remi said, “Is there a regional government to handle this?”
“Not one with troops,” said Father Gomez.
“The police?”
“You saw them,” said Dr. Huerta. “They were the ones trying to arrest you for smuggling drugs after you fought the killers who attacked you on your last visit.”
“Then it has to be the national police in Guatemala City,” Sam said.
Dr. Huerta said, “I just spoke with them on my satellite phone. They said they would send an inspector to take our statements next month, two months at the latest.”
“One inspector?” Sam said.
“Yes.”
“Oh, by the way,” said Father Gomez, “I brought you these.” He took the two pistols and two spare magazines out of his coat pockets and handed them to Sam and Remi.
“Thank you,” said Remi.
“Your car is ready too,” said Pepe. “No charge. I’m sorry for what we did to you. Maybe when you’re back in the big world, you’ll tell people we weren’t so bad.”
The door opened, and the crowd parted to let a small group of townspeople enter the clinic. Sam and Remi
