“Molly! Tell me what’s going on!” I was almost screaming. The others had stopped loading to stare at me.
“No!” Molly Carraway spoke from a distant galaxy, her voice small and tinny and filled with panic. “Please. No!”
Two muted pops.
Another scream.
Two more pops.
Dead air.
2
WE FOUND CARLOS AND MOLLY ABOUT EIGHT KILOMETERS OUTSIDE of Solola, more than ninety kilometers from Guatemala City, but thirty short of the site.
It had rained steadily as our convoy lurched and heaved across the narrow dirt and rock trail that connected the rim of the valley with the paved road. First one vehicle then another became mired, requiring team effort to free the wheels. After shouldering and straining in an ocean of mud we’d resume our seats and push on, looking like New Guinea tribesmen daubed for mourning.
It was normally twenty minutes to the blacktop. That night the trip took more than an hour. I clung to the truck’s armrest, body pitching from side to side, stomach knotted with anxiety. Though we didn’t voice them, Mateo and I contemplated the same questions. What had happened to Molly and Carlos? What would we find? Why had they been so late? What had delayed them? Had they actually been followed? By whom? Where were their pursuers now?
At the juncture of the valley road with the highway, Senor Amado alighted from the Jeep, hurried to his car, and drove off into the night. It was evident that the DA’s representative had no desire to linger in our company a moment longer than necessary.
The rain had followed us out of the valley, and even the blacktop was hazardous. Within fifteen minutes we spotted the FAFG pickup in a ditch on the opposite side of the road, headlights burning at a cockeyed angle, driver’s door ajar. Mateo made a razor U-turn and skidded onto the shoulder. I flew from the cab before he had fully braked, fear tightening the knot in my gut to a hard, cold fist.
Despite rain and darkness, I could see dark splatter covering the exterior panel on the driver’s side. The scene on the interior turned my blood to ice.
Carlos lay doubled over behind the wheel, feet and head toward the open door, as though shoved in from the outside. The back of his hair and shirt were the color of cheap wine. Blood oozed across the top and down the front of the seat, adding to that pooled around the gas and brake pedals, and to the hideous stains on his jeans and boots.
Molly was on the passenger side, one hand on the door handle, the other palm up in her lap. She was slumped like a rag doll, with legs splayed and head at an odd angle against the seatback. Two mushrooms darkened the front of her nylon jacket.
Racing across the shoulder, I pressed trembling fingers to Carlos’s throat. Nothing. I moved my hand, testing for signs of life. Nothing. I tried his wrist. Nothing.
Please, God! My heart pounded wildly below my sternum.
Mateo ran up beside me, indicated I should check Molly. I scrambled to her, reached through the open window, and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Again and again I positioned my fingers against the pale flesh of her throat. Opposite me Mateo shouted into his phone as he mimicked my desperate moves.
On my fourth try I felt a beat, low and weak and uncertain. It was barely a tremor, but it was there.
“She’s alive,” I shouted.
Elena was beside me, eyes wide and glistening. As she opened the door, I bent in and took Molly in my arms. Holding her upright, rain stinging my neck, I unzipped her jacket, raised her sweatshirt, and located the two sources of bleeding. Spreading my feet for balance, I placed pressure on the wounds, and prayed that help would arrive in time.
My own blood hammered in my ears. A hundred beats. A thousand.
I spoke softly into Molly’s ear, reassuring her, cajoling her to stay with me. My arms grew numb. My legs cramped. My back screamed under the strain of standing off balance.
The others huddled for mutual support, exchanging an occasional word or embrace. Cars flashed by with faces pointed in our direction, curious but unwilling to be drawn into whatever drama was unfolding on the road to Solola.
Molly’s face looked ghostly. Her lips were blue around the edges. I noticed that she wore a gold chain, a tiny cross, a wristwatch. The hands said eight twenty-one. I looked for the cell phone, but didn’t see it.
As suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. A dog howled and another answered. A night bird gave a tentative peep, repeated itself.
At long last I spotted a red light far up the highway.
“They’re here,” I crooned into Molly’s ear. “Stay tough, girl. You’re going to be fine.” Blood and sweat felt slick between my fingers and her skin.
The red light drew nearer and separated into two. Minutes later an ambulance and police cruiser screamed onto the shoulder, blasting us with gravel and hot air. Red pulsed off glistening blacktop, rain-glazed vehicles, pale faces.
Molly and Carlos were administered emergency care by the paramedics, transferred to the ambulance, and raced toward the hospital in Solola. Elena and Luis followed to oversee their admittance. After giving brief
