Then one of them hits me in the left thigh.
The pain is surprising. It doesn’t feel anything like I’ve imagined. At first, it’s like a good, solid kick, like you might get in a soccer game from someone wearing cleats. I keep going until I reach the boat, and I jump in. Ixchel grabs the rudder and revs up the engine. The boat springs away from the moorings, cuts a deep swath into the murky water.
I collapse onto the boat’s deck, groaning loudly in agony. Within seconds the pain is deeper and fiercer than anything I’ve ever known. It feels like my thigh muscle has been sliced open and a hot poker stuffed inside. Desperately I clutch at the wound. My hands come away covered in hot, sticky blood.
When I see that, I practically faint.
“Don’t look at it!” warns Ixchel. I close my eyes, leaning my head on the deck, on the verge of tears.
Ixchel’s voice is firm, calm. “Take deep breaths. Into your nose, out through your mouth. As slowly as you can.”
I grit my teeth. My whole body begins to shake violently.
“Hold on, Josh. You’ll be okay.”
Eyes screwed shut, I concentrate on breathing for a few minutes, on the high-pitched roar of the boat’s motor, on the rush of water streaming past us. A few seconds later, I’m a tiny bit calmer. I open my eyes to look at Ixchel. She’s gazing over the river, toward the town’s main dock.
“Don’t get up to look,” she says in an even voice, “but he’s hitching a ride with one of the tourist boats. It’s going in to pick him up right now. They can’t catch up with us. But when we get to the dock, you need to be able to walk. At least to a taxi.”
I give a loud groan. “I can’t walk!”
“I’m sorry, Josh. You must.”
I stare into the gathering clouds high above the river. It takes all my self-control not to whimper in pain. If I were alone I’d be a blubbering wreck by now. In front of Ixchel, there’s no way I can let that happen.
The boat begins to swerve toward the left bank.
“Get ready, Josh. You need to get up in ten seconds.”
I take a few quick, deep breaths, and then pull myself into a sitting position, roaring from the bolt of pure agony that surges through my left leg. Ixchel’s waving at someone on the bank, and she shouts, “Help! Emergency!”
I can’t turn around without hurting, so I can’t see what’s going on. The engine slows and Ixchel steers the boat into the moorings. As soon as it comes to a standstill, she steps over to me. She offers me a hand, helping me to my unsteady feet.
On the deck, two young guys hold out their arms, saying, “Come on, grab hold, grab hold!”
My blood is everywhere. My left jean leg is soaked, dark and rusty. Both my hands, and now Ixchel’s too, are coated with blood. But that doesn’t put the young guys off. They yank us both out of the boat, then the two of them support my weight, practically frog-marching me to a waiting silver VW Beetle.
They help me into the backseat, where I lie moaning and writhing. The pain gets worse by the second. I stuff my collar into my mouth and bite down, tasting the blood that’s now smeared all over my T-shirt.
And then I hear a voice I recognize—Susannah St. John.
“Josh.” Her voice sounds sharp, very clear. I focus on it. “Is that a gunshot wound?”
I nod, trembling.
“Thought so. I heard the shooting; think the whole town did. Still, at least it helped me to find you. Now, darling, can you walk?”
Barely. Again, I nod.
“That’s good—probably nothing broken, then.”
“It hurts like hell.”
Susannah makes a sympathetic clucking noise. “I know, dear. Now, listen, before we can take care of that leg we’re gonna have to drive some. That fella’s on his way to the dock on a boat. Better put some distance between us. That means driving fast. Can you be brave?”
I grit my teeth and nod.
“Give him your hand, dear,” Susannah orders Ixchel. “Try to help hold his leg still.”
Ixchel gives me a look of deep concern. Slowly, she takes my hand. The car begins to move. Every pothole we drive over is pure agony, forcing a scream from me. But when we’re finally on the open road, the surface is smooth.
Susannah slams her foot down on the accelerator. “Seat belts, kids,” she shouts above the high-pitched revs of the engine. “We need to get out of here—and fast.”
BLOG ENTRY: SOMEWHERE IN MEXICO
This guy who’s after me, Simon Madison, keeps popping up when I least expect him. How is he following me? It’s as if he knows every step before I do.
When he turned up at this house yesterday where I was visiting someone named Susannah, it crossed my mind that maybe Susannah had set me up.