One Grave Less

computer ping. It was one of the sounds indicating that it had found results from a search.
    “David set some search parameters for our team and fed them into the computer,” said Gregory. “Apparently, it found something.”
    He flipped to another window and they both stared at the screen for several moments, then at each other.
    “Well, Diane, my dear,” said Gregory, “apparently, Interpol has an alert posted for you on suspicion of murder.”

Chapter 24
    Darkness approached quickly in the jungle. There was still light above the canopy, but on the ground it was growing dim rapidly. Maria had been driving for hours. Her hands and arms were numb from holding on to the jerking, vibrating steering wheel as the truck climbed in and out of ruts and bounced over rock-strewn slopes and exposed roots of the giant rain-forest trees. Stinging sweat trickled down her dirt-streaked face and body. The road they were on, if it could be called a road, was overgrown with broad leaves of all shapes and shades of green that slapped the truck, reached though the open window and slapped her, and grabbed at the truck undercarriage. In other circumstances she would have loved the adventure. Now she was just plain scared.
    Maria found a clearing of sorts and stopped the truck to assess their resources and clean up before light was completely gone. Standing in the back of the truck, she stripped down to bare skin to wash herself for the first time since the beginning of her captivity almost four days ago. She looked at her poor battered body covered with smudges of dirt, dark swollen bruises, scratches, and cuts.
    I haven’t looked this bad since that time in the cave , she thought to herself. Of course, there was the time I was stabbed. And being buried alive was really bad . She had made herself laugh.
    She tore a piece of cloth the size of a bandanna from the bolt of fabric, soaked it in whiskey from one of the bottles in their cargo, and gave herself what had to be her most bizarre sponge bath ever. The whiskey burned like hell on her cuts and abrasions. She kept telling herself that alcohol was an antiseptic; it was killing bad things that were much worse than a little sting. Well, not such a little sting—actually, quite a large and painful sting.
    Thinking of her raw throat and raspy voice, Maria unscrewed the cap from the bottle of whiskey, took a mouthful, swished it as hard and long as she could stand it, gargled with it, and spit it out. It was like gargling with liquid fire. Now she burned inside and out. But it should help her throat.
    While Maria bathed, Rosetta took some of the fresh food from the cargo and made dinner. Maria kept an eye on her from the back of the truck as she took her whiskey bath, marveling at the little girl’s skills. Maria hadn’t wanted her to build a fire, but Rosetta said it was okay for a little while. Maria doubted it. They were traveling through a particularly crime-ridden section of the jungle. She feared who—and what—might be attracted by smoke from a fire. But she relented.
    Rosetta had found a pot among the things in the truck, cooked a soup from the vegetables, and put out the fire with dirt. Smart girl—nutrition, no lingering smoke, no embers, no sign of a fire.
    Maria put her clothes back on, wiping off as much dirt as would come off with a rag and whiskey. She smelled like a distillery, but it was better than what she had smelled like from her days in captivity. She pulled the traditional embroidered blouse that Rosetta had given her over her shirt. The skirt that Rosetta had sewn money up in, Maria folded and put in the bottom of the backpack. Life on this trip was too rough for bare legs. Dirty as her jeans were, she needed the protection and freedom they gave her. There wasn’t much Maria could do with her hair. She left it in the mud-covered dreadlocks it had formed itself into, but she did tie it back with a strip of clean fabric.
    For herself, Rosetta had explained that she had bathed before she put her plan into effect. Maria suspected that Rosetta disapproved of using the whiskey to wash in instead of saving it to trade, but there was still plenty of it left to trade.
    Sitting in the cab of the pickup, they ate the soup Rosetta had made with bread she had brought in her backpack. The food tasted pretty good. But Maria didn’t savor it. She hurried through the meal.
    “Shouldn’t you sleep?” said Rosetta.
    The little girl looked at her with suspicion, as if