The Monkey Idol, page 7
part #1 of Decker & Callie Adventures Series
“We’re making good timing. Should dock in two days,” he briefed him. “You? “
“Aside from our rooms being ransacked, we’re great.”
“No kidding!” he blurted out. “Did you find the culprit?”
“Not yet. Security guard told us there was a man hanging around the hotel with a long scar on his cheek. Sounds like the same hooligan who was after Holly in Los Angeles.”
“It’s heating up,” Carson said. “Better watch your backs.”
“Were you able to locate a guide for us?” Decker could hear the shuffling of papers in the background.
“Yup,” Carson said, getting his information in order. “I have three men lined up. Manuel Rodriguez; Damion Asposis and Webu Broca. They live in the fishing village there along the coast. Manuel has been taking groups into the jungle since he was a young man. He’s a reputable guide according to my research. Not as sure about Webu Broca. His name was passed along a little later, but I believe he may have gone with Manuel on a couple jungle excursions.”
“Do you have a contact number for Manuel?”
Carson laughed. “I was told to ask anyone in the village, and they would know him.” Changing the subject, he added, “Did you have the artifact with you? Whoever broke into your rooms didn’t find it or the map, did they?”
“No, I didn’t want to risk bringing it back. Eventually, I’ll turn it over to the museum here in Honduras, but for now, it’s in a safe place, and the map stays on my body. I’m not going to let it out of my sight,” Decker assured him. “I think today Callie and I will go see if we can find Manuel. I’d like to set out as soon as possible once you drop anchor.”
“I’ll keep in touch with you,” Carson said. “And let me know how it turns out with the guides. Without them, we’re like a ship without a rudder.”
Decker knew that was true. They needed someone capable of speaking several different languages, as well as someone familiar with the many tributaries and lay of the land. The jungle could swallow a person whole if they didn’t know what they were doing. Dangers lurked in every direction. A good guide would steer them away from many of the hazards they could otherwise find themselves in.
While Decker and Callie prepared to find Manuel Rodriguez, Decker asked Garrett to stay at the beach during the day or take Holly to see the sights. Decker told Garrett how important it was not to let her out of his sight. The persons responsible for ransacking their rooms could possibly grab Holly and hold her hostage until they got what they wanted.
Setting out on foot, Decker and Callie walked along the beach toward a couple of the local villages. They wanted to find Manuel quickly and set their plans in motion. Even while they walked, he was certain someone was watching their every move. He had no doubt that sooner or later these people, whoever they were, would confront them. There was a chance Decker was reading the situation wrong. But he realized the men following them would stay off in the shadows and simply wait it out until he and Callie cleared a path for them.
Callie looked up at her husband with a wide smile. “You always look like a tourist, Decker.” She couldn’t help but be amused by his bright Hawaiian shirts. Today, like so many, he wore a silky, bright yellow shirt with large orange flowers printed on it. That, in combination with his khaki shorts, flip flops and golden-brown hair whipping back from his darkly tanned face, anyone would think he was a surfer right off the boat from Honolulu.
He smiled.
Callie was dressed in a white tank top, tucked into tan slacks. She had since slipped off her leather sandals, so her toes could sink into the warm sand. They walked hand in hand along the shore. Occasionally, she would dart out into the warm Caribbean waters and allow it to wash over her feet, then rush back onto the sand as a wave rolled in.
They strolled into one of the fishing villages lined with quaint, thatched-roof shacks, many of which served up a variety of seafood and cold drinks for the tourists. A few of the smaller markets along the way had a variety of seafood—mahi-mahi, swordfish, tuna, and snapper; as fresh as it gets. As well as conch, a delicacy served in the coastal towns.
Interspersed were specialty shops painted in brilliant colors of reds, bright yellows, and different shades of blue. Roofs were either made up of clay tile, thatched, or corrugated tin. Some sturdy; others dilapidated and in great need of repair.
A few young boys scuttled up to them, trying to pawn off carved rocks, claiming they were artifacts. Their enterprising creativity brought smiles to Decker and Callie’s faces. But Callie was always gracious. She’d squat down to examine the stones and talk with them for a time before moving on.
She loved children. Though she and Decker had tried for years to have a child, it didn’t seem to be in the plan for them. It was a long and painful journey, but they had come to terms with it and began giving some of their time to children’s organizations to help fill the void.
They continued along the beach. Twenty-five-foot, fiberglass fishing boats bobbed over the curling waves. Most of the smaller boats were not equipped with motors and used long wooden oars instead. The fishing villages were typically poor areas, though able to subsist because of the bay’s abundant sea life.
In the fishing villages lived the Afro-Caribbean Garifuna culture, which some believed had come to Honduras as early as the thirteen-hundreds. Others said the Garifuna came from western Africa on slave boats that were shipwrecked in the Caribbean in the sixteen-hundreds and made their way inland to St. Vincent Island, where they mixed with the native people and became the Garifuna.
The language in Honduras varied throughout the different regions. In Trujillo, it was mostly Spanish, Garifuna, Miskito, and English. Decker wondered if Manuel spoke enough English to adequately understand what their intentions were for the next few weeks and make sure their transportation was secured. It was always best to know the guides you hired before entering an unfamiliar area.
Decker slid his fingers around Callie’s and pulled her along behind him to a souvenir shop. Lining the shelves were a variety of items displayed, such as conch shells, homemade dolls dressed in bright costumes, a stock of woven purses, and brightly colored skirts amongst a wide variety of handcrafted baubles made from nuts and seeds.
“Good morning,” Decker greeted the shopkeeper with a wide smile.
“Good morning,” was her cheerful reply. “Can I show you some of my shells or a coin purse for the little lady?” Her round face was flushed and full of vitality.
“Not today, thank you. I’m looking for a man who lives somewhere here in the village. Manuel Rodriguez.”
“And what business do you have with Manuel?” she questioned with arched brows, her dark eyes surveying him suspiciously.
“I’m told he’s a river guide, and we’re in need of one.”
Decker noted her protective carriage. It was obvious she knew Manuel and wanted to make sure their intentions were honorable.
She nodded with a wide smile and pointed her finger still farther westward. “Yes, yes,” she responded, quite willing to assist Decker now that she knew his business. “He lives on down the road across from the butchers in a small home. It is painted a tangerine color.”
“Thank you. Appreciate your help,” Decker said cordially, amazed at how quickly it all happened. Carson was right. Everyone knew everyone here in the village. He guessed that was the way it was in small towns around the world. One person did a good act, and everyone knew about it before the following day. Likewise, if anyone did something horrific, that too would be widely broadcast throughout their quaint community.
“Well, that was like falling off a log as they say,” Callie clipped jovially.
“And who are they?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I think they were pretty darned smart.”
Decker laughed. “If everything on this trip was going to be this easy, we’d be in great shape.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath, Decker.”
“Believe me; I won’t!”
To their right, they observed a few ladies sitting outside a small shack grating cassava root over sharp stones affixed to wooden boards. They transported the pulp to woven, cylindrical bags that hung from nearby trees known as ‘ruguma.’ Once they dumped the pulp inside the bags, they used heavy rocks as weights to squeeze out the liquid. Once the pulp was drained off, it was set out to dry, and later made into flour.
The women sang songs as they worked and seemed to have a rhythm that had been passed down over the years. They used the flour to make pancakes called Ereba, which was usually eaten with fresh fish and was a common staple among the Garifuna.
The ladies waved as they passed by.
They reached the butcher shop and as the woman had said, straight across from it was a small orangish building. It was rather ramshackle, but sufficient. Some of the boards were loose; some hanging free on the side threatening to fall with any amount of wind, but it was not unlike the other small structures surrounding it. It was a poor community, but the people were welcoming and hospitable.
When they stepped up to the house, they saw the door was wide open. Decker poked his head inside the door and called out, “Hello.”
A slight framed Spanish man came to the entrance. He was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His face was weathered, and he sported a pencil-thin mustache. His hair was cropped short, and his dark eyes reflected warmth and kindness. He looked a bit puzzled to see someone at his door but motioned for them to come inside.
Decker and Callie followed Manuel into the small but comfortable room. There were a couple of chairs, and he motioned for them to take a seat. As they did, a short, heavier set woman entered the room from what appeared to be the kitchen, a long wooden spoon in one hand and a tin coffee pot in the other.
“Can I give you some coffee?” she asked politely.
Decker shook his head. “No, thank you. Callie?”
“Thank you, but I believe I’ve had my fill for the day.”
“My name is Decker Hayden. This is my wife, Callie,” Decker introduced, then directed his gaze on Manuel. “We were told you’re a jungle guide?”
Manuel nodded in agreement. “I am.”
Decker was happy to discover Manuel spoke perfect English and had only a slight accent. “The captain of our boat, the Jade, said he’d been given your name by someone here in Trujillo and that you’d be willing to take our team into the jungle. His name’s Carson Perry.”
“Yes, yes,” Manuel said, understanding why they had come. “I’ve taken people through the jungle for many years. I’m well acquainted with the land and have gone for weeks on end with no fatalities,” he smiled.
Decker laughed softly. “We’d like to go as soon as possible, and we’ll also need a couple of vehicles.”
“I can find a couple, or if you prefer, we could go on the chicken bus that leaves every few days bound for Tocoa. However, the route to Tocoa and Batalla is known for its frequent robberies,” he informed them. “Plus, it’s a much longer way to tap into the Rio Plátano.”
“The chicken bus, huh?” chuckled Decker.
“The roads are not always the best, but I’ll rent a couple of vehicles. I have a few trusted men that go with me, and I also have connections in Barra Plátano where we’ll put the boats in. We’ll make our way along the coast which will be much safer.”
“Perfect,” said Decker. “I’m waiting for my boat to dock within the next two days. It’s carrying all of our necessities for the trip. There’ll be five of us going with you. We’re adequately supplied, but we’ll take stock when the Jade anchors. If we find we’re in need of anything, we’ll take care of it. We use the Jade as a base for emergencies. When Carson arrives, he’ll settle up with you on the terms of payment.”
He nodded appreciatively.
“Then we’ll be in contact in a couple of days,” Decker informed him, and reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card. If you need me for anything, I’m staying at the Christopher Columbus Beach Resort. As soon as the boat docks, I’ll send someone for you. I’d like us to go over some of the fine points and have you available for answering any questions the team may have.”
Manuel had a gentle spirit. Instinctively, Decker knew he could trust him. It wasn’t anything Manuel said; it was years of working alongside guides and team members that helped him read the makeup of a person. After only a short time with Manuel, he knew he would serve them honorably. Decker was looking forward to knowing him better. He was also curious who else would be working alongside of them. Trustworthy guides were not always easily come by. Decker did not take his guides for granted. He always made sure they were paid well for their service.
Chapter 12
The crew was thankful for clear weather and sun washed skies, though it was blistering hot and little breeze to cool them. The Jade scudded across the Gulf of Mexico, bearing down at ten knots, her slender prow splitting the navy-blue swells.
Below deck, there was the faint humming of the motor. Other than the squall of seabirds overhead, and the slapping waves on the hull, there was little other sound. They were on a set course to Trujillo, Honduras and there was a sense of excitement hanging over the deck.
Carson and Shane were at their stations in the pilothouse stooped over tide charts. They kept a keen watch on the GPS, water currents, and depths. Unlike the others, they were afforded air conditioning. They could see the men were a bit sluggish.
“Poor guys,” Carson said.
“Yup. I feel almost guilty,” Shane agreed. “Not enough to trade places though.”
Carson laughed. “I won’t tell them you said that.”
“Good or they’d probably toss me to the sharks.”
Carson patted him on the back. “I think they’re too smart to toss you over, Shane. We’d probably have run aground years ago, had it not been for your expertise.”
“Is that a compliment?” Shane feigned surprise.
Carson grinned. “Don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that.”
They both laughed heartily.
On days like these, when the heat was unbearable, the crew would pull out the chess set or checker game. Today, being one of those days, Sam was hunched over his guitar, his curly, brown hair fluttering from the slight breeze. He serenaded the crew with humorous licks from the seventies. There were loud guffaws, foot tapping, ear splitting tones from those who couldn’t carry a tune, but nobody cared. It was all in fun.
Standing to Sam’s right was Ted Bingham, harmonica to his lips. Together, the two of them made quite a duo. They sang one song after another until, one by one, the crew returned to their assigned places aboard the boat.
It was not long thereafter that Ted and Polly were back to swabbing the deck, still humming a lively tune. Carson and his first mate Shane remained in the pilothouse keeping check on the navigational instruments. Storms at sea had a way of coming on quickly. The last thing they wanted was to be caught off guard.
Having a three hundred and sixty-degree viewpoint came in handy this day. As Carson scanned the horizon, he spotted a motor boat bearing down on them fast. The bow bounced up in the waves and water erupted from it. He could make out the figures of four men. They didn’t appear to be military.
“Shane, what do you think?” Carson asked, his brows woven together with concern.
Shane grabbed the radio mic. He made several tries to contact the oncoming boat, but there was no response.
Shane watched the procession, trying to determine what their intentions might be. He didn’t see fishing equipment aboard, but he did see a firearm in one of the men’s hands. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I’m going to sound the alarm.”
It was not uncommon in the Caribbean to run across pirates. These waters were notorious for thieves coming on board to brutalize people and taking whatever valuables they could find. Sometimes even kidnapping those on board for ransom. Assistance from authorities was not always forthcoming. That was why they always made sure they were well stocked with weapons, as well as the proper permits to carry them.
The boat was driving hard toward them. The men scurried across deck to find out what the warning was. Carson leapt down the flight of stairs, motioning for the men to gather together for a quick briefing.
“Boat approaching fast,” he yelled. “Get your guns and meet back here as quickly as possible. Looks like we may have pirates after us!”
The men scurried to their quarters to grab their weapons and ammunition. Without hesitation, they loaded their guns and sprinted back onto the deck where Carson awaited them. The boat’s prow sliced through the swells, closing the gap between them.
“Okay guys, find cover, I don’t want to see anyone shot,” Carson told them.
No sooner had Carson spoken than a gunshot sang out over the deck, splintering a side rail. The men lay low, taking cover behind whatever protection they could find. Another shot resonated, and then another. Chips of wood shattered, becoming sharp projectiles as they exploded from the impact.
Carson saw the boat drawing up port side and veering toward the Jade with intentions of boarding. The navigator of the boat cranked the wheel, barely missing the side of Jade. That gave Polly a moment of opportunity. Hand extended, he opened fire with his Smith and Wesson handgun. As their boat changed its course and turned sharply, Polly landed his shot on the side of their craft, a burst of wood shot outward, and one of the men flew backward out of the boat into the sea.
For a short time, the boat was waylaid trying to fish the man back inside, which bought the Jade extra time to place distance between them. It appeared the man was dead because when they had drawn him up out of the icy waves, they let him drop back into the water and let the sea devour him. The drama did not seem to squelch their thirst for pursuit, and once more their craft swung wide, cutting through the waves like a sharp-edged knife aggressively chasing after them.
Carson radioed for help but knew it would not come quickly, if at all. “Mayday, Mayday,” he shouted over the hand mic. He was met only with static.
