He wondered if her personality played a part in her inconsistencies. She was free-spirited—as unpredictable as the wind. There was a part of him that respected that. He’d never seen a woman who would travel the world with no fear. He guessed the only reason she hired a fixer was that they could get her into areas that were restricted. Families in the mountains who worked for the Colombian cartel were closely guarded against intruders. Outsiders weren’t trusted, and stories remained secret unless someone could vouch for the journalist’s authenticity. There was no welcome mat in his corner of the world. No need to let the enemy in.
Page was gaining a reputation in the Colombian cartel. She was known for writing the truth. There were no twists, turns, or lies to her stories and the families she interviewed, and the Colombian cartel respected that. Journalists didn’t have a good name with the cartel, but Kavya Page Wordsmith did. That reputation would take her further than she ever imagined—if…he allowed it to.
The woman had to be doing well financially. Fixers didn’t come cheap, and neither did worldwide travel. Now the bitch was writing a book. It bothered him that she was making a living off the backs of others.
His vision was skewed because if he was able to see clearly, he would know she wanted the truth to get out about what families suffered through, families that were forced to work with the cartel. Families that were between a rock and a hard place—the soldiers, the government, and the cartel. They were killed or imprisoned for the crops they grew. Their homes were burnt down, and they lost all their personal belongings. It was a hard life and one they were forced into if they wanted to survive financially. The process of how to grow the leaves, cook the paste and distribute the product was passed down from generation to generation. No detail was left out, and it was an art the farmers took pride in.
He would watch Page, and when the time was right, he’d abduct her and make her write his story. He was just as good as these other people. Why did they get a story, and he didn’t?
He had grown up poor in the mountains of Colombia. A fixer had approached his father and promised him money for a tour of the farm a journalist would write about. The fixer had been a hoax. He had killed Tadias’ parents and left the boy an orphan—forced to live off the kindness of others in a country where kind people were few and far between. He’d managed to join a group of people who came into the United States illegally. For a month, he lived on the streets of Louisville, Kentucky. On a cold winter night, when he was picked up by the police, he was put into foster care. America wasn’t the promised land for a boy who bounced around from home to home. He was abused by the bigger boys, and many times he’d run away just to escape the brutality of his body being used and abused. When he beat a boy so severely, he put him in the hospital, it was the last time he ever had to run. When the judge heard his story—his plight, he emancipated the boy and gave him a green card. He worked in restaurants washing dishes and lived in flea-bitten motels he called home. Tad didn’t care how dirty his house was; he was finally free, and he was going to make the world pay for his terrible childhood.
He would make Page write his story, and people would see the hell he’d grown up in. It was his truth, and soon it would be a truth the world had to acknowledge. No longer would they be able to turn a blind eye on what an illegal immigrant went through. No longer would the finger of judgment be pointed in his direction because he didn’t follow the rules. Rules? His life was about survival—it was about life and death. Perhaps if it was documented on paper, people would understand.
What Tadias’ didn’t understand is: you will never make people understand because they haven’t walked in your shoes. The heart can only understand what it has gone through.
When his truth was shoved in the face of society with a brutal force that couldn’t be overlooked, it would have to be recognized as the ugly reality it was. Maybe then people would think about how they treated the children.
Chapter Eleven
Page looked at Judy and squinted her eyes suspiciously.
“I’m getting hives. I don’t like that look on your face.” Judy made a circle with her hand in front of her own face. “That whole glinty, sparkly, mischievous thing you’ve got going on; it isn’t working for me. It’s the look you always get when you have a crazy idea that’s going to get us in trouble.”
“What does it look like?” Page answered in an innocent voice—as if she didn’t know.
“You get a mischievous glint in your eye, and then you spew out some hair-brained idea that’s totally crazy. I get pulled into it, and although it’s fun, it usually entails danger. Can’t you just go to the mall? You know…something normal?”
“I don’t think it’s crazy. Just listen—with an open mind.”
“I’m listening while I get hives. You make me nervous, woman.”
Page straightened up in her chair like she was getting ready to tackle a hard project. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Because he wrote an aggressive email, he’ll be expecting me to be a bitch. The ‘we’ll draw more bees with honey’ approach might be better.” She shrugged. “That’s logical.”
Judy looked at her, shocked; this was not the ‘norm’ for Page.
“You never approach bullies like that. You always fight back. What’s different about this guy, Page?”
“I get the feeling this guy has a reason for hating me. Maybe something in his past was triggered by reading my blog. If we offer to help him, it’ll throw him off. Maybe he’ll open-up about why he is pissed. Maybe he really does have a story to tell.”
Page’s face was so earnest it was hard to not give voice to what she was saying.
“You know he’s probably watching you, don’t you?”
“Then it can’t hurt to try and appeal to his soft side. If he has one. If we help him before his anger escalates, we could save ourselves a lot of problems.”
“His soft side? A guy who may or may not be in the Colombian cartel with a soft side.” Judy held her head in her hands in exasperation. Reasoning with Page was impossible because her heart was bigger than any logic that could be presented. “I give up. You’re right, it can’t hurt. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless he develops an obsession for you because of your kindness. Unless he’s some crazy fucker going around and killing journalists. Unless he doesn’t like the way you write his story. Unless, unless, unless…” Judy held her hands up in defeat, “How far do you want me to go with the possible scenarios that could or couldn’t arise? There is one definitive to you: you’re incorrigible.”
“If he’s already stalking me, then he’s already obsessed for whatever reason. I don’t think this is about sex. I think the guy wants his side of his truth to be told. You can’t fault him for that if that’s where he’s coming from. I can use whatever his obsession is to my benefit.” Page laughed, “Maybe he’ll develop an obsession for you. Then we’ll both have stalkers.”
“Great. Now you want to pull me into this emotionally. I don’t need a crazy man. You don’t either. When were you going to tell me, you fucked Mano?”