I was going to throw up. I took a deep breath, slowly, and stopped
myself. Before I got Sarah and we got the hell out of _Baalum_, I was
going to smash everything in this lab.
It all had just come together. Those shots of "muscle relaxant" he gave
me up at Quetzal Manor, they had to be a cocktail of his "proprietary"
ovulation drugs. Then, with my ovaries ripening, he'd lured me here
using Sarah. He knew I'd come after her. Next he'd "arranged" with Alan
Dupre to fly me here. Finally, a sedative, and he'd harvested 233 of my
ova, which he now had out there in those incubators. . . .
But what about proof? To show the world. Morning sounds were building
up outside, so I was less worried whether the two soldiers in the
hallway were still asleep or not. Truthfully, I was so wired I no
longer cared. I clicked on a printer and began zipping off the files of
each woman he'd violated, all six.
Disgust flowed through me like a torrent. Heart of Darkness. "The
horror, the horror." Alex Goddard had used Sarah in the most
unspeakable way possible, then tried to have her murdered. Probably
he'd just turned her over to Colonel Ramos.
The same thing must have happened to those other women. All
"disappeared" somewhere in Guatemala. But who would know?
One thing I knew. I was next. . . .
The printer was old and loud, but thankfully it was fast. Four minutes
later I had what I'd need to nail the criminal. When I got out of here,
somebody would have to believe me.
While I was stacking the printouts, I resolved to call the embassy
right then, the hour be damned. I was sweating like a gazelle when the
lion is closing in. Alex Goddard had just performed primal, surgical
rape on me, and now the Army was right outside. I had to get the
embassy.
And that was when I realized I didn't have the number. But it had to be
in a phone book somewhere.
A quick look around the office didn't turn up one. I considered ringing
the Camino Real again, to ask them to look up the number, but then I
had an inspired thought. Steve had said Alan Dupre's number was easy to
remember because it promoted his business. What was it? I couldn't
remember.
Then it came back: 4-MAYAN, the six-digit number they used in Guatemala
City. Call the sleazebag and ask him who can get me out of here. He's
supposed to know everybody.
Dawn was bringing more and more forest-morning songs through the thin
slats of the windows. I walked over and pushed them open, running my
fingers out into the air. It felt cool, the touch of freedom, and I
thought for a moment about bursting through to escape. Just get Sarah
now.
Instead, I walked back to the phone, clenching my fists, and dialed
Alan Dupre's number, praying and hoping it was where he lived. Steve
had called him late in the evening, so it probably was. I'd thought I
never wanted to speak to him again, but now . . . God, let him be there.
The phone, however, just rang and rang and rang.
Come on. Damn.