BooksBarbecue
Back Whirlwind
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

As we pass him, he reaches out and puts a restraining hand on my shoulder. It’s a soft hand, but it tightens till it feels like he might snap my collarbone. His voice sounds in my ear: “Goodbye, Jack. I’ve told you the truth and I’m giving you a chance at a happy life, which is more than your own father ever did. Remember one thing—if you ever make contact with Kidah, or try to help the Dannites in any way, I’ll find you and make you wish you had fallen into that pool with the candirú.”

51

51

It’s an armada of the pathetic. In twos and threes they are let out of their dark cells and stumble down to the river under the watchful eyes of armed guards.

P.J. and I stand near a dozen dugout canoes, holding hands silently, and we watch the sad parade approach. They limp and sway and lean on each other for support—men, boys, and even a few women and little kids. Some of them have tremors, others have been in prison for so long that they look terrified at the prospect of freedom. The colonel’s phrase comes to mind—the weak, the diseased, and the addle-brained. He has indeed opened his prison’s gates to cast out the wretched refuse of his teeming cells.

All the men and boys from my old cell are there. Mudinho, our young companion from the Andes, now looks to be inseparable from Gisco. He waves at me and smiles, glad that I’m okay and pleased to be out in the sunlight. Then he hops into a canoe and snaps his fingers, and Gisco bounds in after him and settles down by his feet. I watch him pat the dog’s snout and give Gisco’s ears a good scratch. The old Gisco would have bitten his fingers off, or at least made a bitingly sarcastic comment. But the new Gisco just drools and wags his mop of a tail.

I help P.J. into a canoe. We haven’t spoken much since we were let out of the colonel’s fish-tank torture chamber. I think she’s experiencing post-traumatic shock—if that’s possible, since our trauma is not over yet. She watches me at all times, as if afraid that if she so much as blinks too hard I may vanish into the steamy air.

I sit in front of her and grab a paddle. These canoes are not the sleek machine-tooled and outboard-powered craft that the colonel’s soldiers used to rescue us from the caimans. The dugout P.J. and I clamber into is thirty feet long, and appears to have been chewed by fire from a single log. Its worn hull has an impressive assortment of nicks and knife slashes, not to mention dried chicken feathers glued on with blood.