Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,38
of the Quran. All of the men outside bowed in unison, backs straight, gaze lowered. Wara shivered, hearing again, “Allah Akbar!” and realizing that most of the praying men wore long knives hanging from their belts in leather sheathes. Her attention span suddenly fizzled and she weakly crawled back to the sleeping bag, not quite sure what this new revelation meant for her.
She was being held captive by a group of Muslims. Who had put a bomb on her bus.
For the first time she wondered where she was. Under the white star light outside the tent, Wara had made out the shadowy bulk of mountain peaks. The men must have carried her, unconscious, from the road after the accident. They couldn’t have carried her far, could they?
We could be up on one of the peaks above Coroico.
The perfect hiding spot for terrorists, apparently.
Who would ever guess that Islamic terrorists would be lurking around Coroico, adventure tourism capital? Coroico, with its stunning scenery, picturesque small-town charm, thick with plantings of coffee beans and oranges?
Feeling rather sick, Wara uncapped the bottle of luke-warm water Paulo had given her last night and drained the rest. She really needed to use the bathroom, but wasn’t about to ask. Yet. Right now she really needed a distraction, something to keep from thinking about Muslim terrorists outside her tent and Noah possibly being dead. Wara dropped the empty plastic bottle onto the sleeping bag and let her eyes wander around the tent.
The olive green tent was big enough for Paulo to stand in at the center, just barely. Six people could possibly sleep in the thing side to side, but right now the tent only held the one sleeping bag, a rust-colored hiking backpack, the lantern, and leather sandals.
And a fat golden book. Swallowing hard, Wara reached towards it, thinking maybe she could work on deciphering some of the Arabic lettering in this Quran to keep herself from crying. She flipped through the gold leaf pages of the book, then frowned at the page and blinked.
Because the book wasn’t a Quran at all; it was a Bible.
The scrolling letters shimmered in front of her, and Wara closed the book to see the cover, unable to believe what was in front of her eyes.
This guy, Paulo, had a Bible here in his tent? The same Paulo who was holding her captive and had tried to kill her and Noah on the bus?
Something fluttered out of the Arabic Bible pages, swishing to the nylon tent floor. It was a dated-looking five-by-seven photograph of a happy family seated at a restaurant. Wara immediately recognized the bright colors and elephant logo of Dumbo ice cream parlor in Cochabamba. The entire family in the picture was gathered around a square table with a canary yellow tablecloth, eating sundaes in tall, frosty glasses.
Footsteps padded outside and Wara jumped as Paulo ducked in the tent. He saw her sitting there, then paused. Droplets of water still clung to his temples and curly black hair. “How are you feeling?” he finally said.
“What?” Wara blinked at him. How was she feeling? Was she really supposed to be feeling anything other than awful?
Paulo’s eyes flitted between her face and the photo she was holding between two fingers. It occurred to her that maybe snapping at him about how she was feeling wouldn’t be the best way to keep this guy from killing her. Maybe she should talk to him, try to at least seem sympathetic.
It wasn’t very likely he would care, but worth a try.
“Dumbo,” Wara remarked, studying the picture again and trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I love this place. I go here all the time in Cochabamba. Who’s this in the picture?”
Paulo lowered himself onto the floor next to her and held out one hand, palm up. “That’s my family,” Paulo said, obviously wanting the picture. But Wara kept staring at it, suddenly fascinated with how the family of an evil man who bombed buses would look. They should be dysfunctional to the core, lounging together at a seedy bar while the kids ran wild in the streets. What were they all doing eating ice cream at Dumbo like decent people?
Two normal-appearing adults who could be the parents were both looking off in another direction, as were a few of the children. “Looks like you have a nice family,” Wara said, thinking that it was actually true. Closest to the camera sat a plump teenage girl with curly ringlets, a Mickey Mouse