Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,40

That would be what my father called me.”

What could Alejandro Martir possibly have against his father? Pablo Martir was a good man, a far cry from what his son had apparently become.

This was a nightmare. Wara’s eyes ran over Alejo’s face again: Nazaret’s father’s jaw. His mother’s eyes.

It was awful. Being kidnapped and nearly killed by someone bearing the image of her Bolivian “parents” was really freaking Wara out.

She couldn’t handle it.

Wara crumpled down into the sleeping bag and pulled the top over her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, even after she heard Alejo leave the tent, close the flap behind him.

Alejo Martir left her alone for a long time, just stopping back once to remind her that the tent was surrounded by motion detectors so she’d better be sure not to escape. He asked if she needed the bathroom or food, but she didn’t even acknowledge him, still curled up under the sleeping bag.

Alejo and the other guys were close by in the clearing, having some kind of meetings. Probably terrorist stuff.

Maybe about noon he came back and caught her staring blankly at the cover of the fat golden Bible “Brought you some granola bars,” he said grimly. “And some more water. But before you eat, there’s a stream close by in the forest. I thought maybe you’d want to go down there...” He squatted and picked up a bag from behind his backpack in the corner, which he held out towards Wara. She blinked, realizing it was her purple backpack.

“How did that get here? I don’t remember.”

Alejo shrugged, one foot tapping on the floor, probably anxious to get back to whatever he was doing outside. “I’m going to have Gabriel and Stalin take you down to the creek,” he informed her. Noting a look of protest about to spread across her face, Alejo raised one hand and said, “Most of the guys have already gone back home. The ones that are left I trust. They’re going to take you there and bring you right back. Ok?”

“Fine.” Wara shrugged helplessly. What choice did she have? She was his prisoner, right?

“Thanks for the food,” she said in a small voice, glad right now for any small kindness.

Alejo nodded curtly and eyed her again before turning to stride out of the tent. She heard him giving instructions to someone outside, and then the tent flap pulled aside and two faces poked in: the pale goatee who woke Alejo for prayers this morning and the pudgy guy who last night had told her that when she kicked the bucket she deserved to go to heaven.

“Ready?” they asked politely. Wara stood up warily, racking her brain to try to remember if these two had been among those making nasty comments upon her arrival last night. As far as she could recall, the stringy-haired guy had only been standing and staring—and she remembered him giving her a hand up and telling the guys to stop with the lewd jokes. And the skinny guy—now it was all coming back. He had leaned close when Alejo had his arm practically around her neck and whispered, “I didn’t want to bring her, but the guys said I had to.”

So far so good.

“Ok, sure.” Wara shrugged and tried to pick up her rather heavy backpack. The bulky guy stepped forward hesitantly and held out one arm for her bag. She handed it to him without a word and followed the two of them outside. After a few steps in blinding sunlight, they entered the shade of the trees. A chorus of cicadas and tropical birds was rising above the canopy.

Wara jumped as a reedy voice said, “So, I’m Stalin. In Coroico I’m a professor. I teach kids morality and ethics class.”

“Uh, hi.”

Morality and ethics class? Is he serious?

“My name is Gabriel Shara.” Wara noticed that the taller, thin guy had a baby face with kind-looking greenish eyes.

“I’m Wara Cadogan,” she said, wondering if they really cared.

“Yeah, we know.” Gabriel was starting to cheer up. “We read your passport. You’ve been here in Bolivia for a really long time.”

“Six years,” Stalin remarked, stepping carefully over a very tall rock, slippery with the morning dew. Wara felt the dampness soak through her canvas shoes and into her ankle socks, and decided that whatever time left to her in life she would live barefoot.

“Just a second,” she said, stopping in the middle of the forest and beginning to peel off her soaked shoes and socks. “My shoes are all wet.”

“But—we’re