Pop Goes the Weasel

doubted we’d get any more from them than that.
    “I love her,” I told them. “I can’t leave. Her name is Christine.”
    My mouth was still dry, and I couldn’t breathe very well. “She was kidnapped a year ago. We know she was brought here.”
    Sampson took out his Glock and held it loosely at his side. He stared at the four men, who continued to glare back at us. I touched the handle of my gun, still in its holster. I didn’t want a gunfight.
    “We can cause you a whole lot of trouble,” Sampson said in a low, rumbling voice. “You won’t believe how much trouble is coming your way.”
    Finally, I just walked forward on a worn path back through the tall grass. I passed by the men, lightly brushing against one of them.
    No one tried to stop me. I could smell ganja and sweat on their work clothes. Tension was building up inside me.
    Sampson followed me, no more than a step or two behind. “I’m watching them,” he said. “Nobody’s doing anything yet.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I have to see if she’s here.”

Chapter 123
    AN OLDER WOMAN with long and wildly frazzled gray and white hair stepped out of the front door as I reached the scarred, unpainted steps. Her eyes were ringed with redness.
    “Come with me.” She sighed. “Come along. You nah need no weapon.”
    For the first time in many months, I allowed myself to feel the tiniest flash of hope, though I didn’t have any reason to, other than the rumor that a woman was being kept here against her will.
    Beatitude? Something to do with blessedness and happiness? Could it be Christine?
    The old woman walked unsteadily around the house and through light bushes, trees, and ferns out back. About sixty or seventy yards into the thickening woods, she came to half a dozen small shacks, where she stopped. The shacks were made of wood, bamboo, and corrugated metal.
    She walked forward again and stopped at the next-to-last shack in the group.
    She took out a key attached to a leather strap around her wrist, inserted it in the door lock, and jiggled it.
    She pushed the door forward, and it creaked loudly on a rusty hinge.
    I looked inside and saw a plain, neat, and clean room. Someone had written The Lord Is My Shepherd in black paint on the wall.
    No one was there.
    No Beatitude.
    No Christine.
    I let my eyes fall shut. Desperation enveloped me.
    My eyes slowly opened. I didn’t understand why I had been led to this empty room, this old shack in the woods. My heart was ripped in two again. Was it some kind of trap?
    The Weasel? Shafer? Was he here?
    Someone stepped out from behind a small folding screen in one corner of the room. I felt as if I were in free fall, and a small gasp came out of my mouth
    I didn’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Sampson put out his hand to steady me. I was barely aware of his touch.
    Christine slowly stepped into the shafts of sunlight coming from the single window in the shack. I had thought I would never see her again.
    She was much thinner, and her hair was braided and longer than I’d ever seen it. But she had the same wise, beautiful brown eyes. Neither of us was able to speak at first. It was the most extraordinary moment of my life.
    I had gone cold all over, and everything was moving in slow motion. It seemed supernaturally quiet in the small room.
    Christine was holding a light-yellow blanket, and I could see a baby’s head just peeking above the crown of the covers. I walked forward even though my legs were trembling and threatening to buckle. I could hear the baby softly cooing in the nest of blankets.
    “Oh, Christine, Christine,” I finally managed.
    Tears welled in her eyes, and then in mine. We both stepped forward, and then I was awkwardly holding her. The little baby gazed up peacefully into both our faces.
    “This is our baby, and he probably saved my life. He takes after you,” Christine said. Then we kissed gently, and it was so sweet and tender. We held on for dear, dear life. We melted into each other. Neither of us could believe this was actually happening.
    “I call him Alex. You were always right here,” Christine told me. “You were always with me.”

Chapter 124
    HIS NAME WAS FREDERICK NEUMAN, and he liked to think of himself as a citizen of the European community rather than of any single country, but if anyone asked, he claimed to be German. His head was shaved close, and it made him look severe, but also more impressive, he thought — an