Read Online Border Crossings: A Catherine James Thriller by Michael L. Weems - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael L. Weems
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to get off the highway.”
“There’s not much further to go,” said Jose. He pulled out a map from the glove box and turned on the dome light. “Just take the county roads ahead. We can take this one and get off the highway and it goes all the way down. Look.” He pointed to a line on the map.
“Ok, that will work,” said Hector. “But keep a look out. There’s going to be cops swarming around here pretty soon.”
A few miles later, just as Yesenia looked back and saw a speck of light flashing in the far distance, the Suburban turned down a thin county road. She stared behind her as the black patch of highway began dwindling away. She imagined at any second she’d see a dozen police cars suddenly turn down the road speeding after them. Her eyes stayed glued to the road, her heart trying to decide if she wanted to see the police coming after them or not.
They made a curve around a bend, cutting off her view of the highway, and after a few minutes Yesenia began to breathe norma lly again as they put more miles behind them. What have I done? She asked herself. How did I let myself end up with people? It all seemed to keep going from bad to worse and what scared Yesenia the most now was wondering how much worse it could get.
Chapter 10
Ten hours. That’s the approximate time it took for all hell to break loose in Cancun. It was like an avalanche that began rolling down the hill that morning. Univision, the Hispanic television channel, broke the story in the United States on their morning news channel, followed by KHOU 1 1 in Houston. Other students on vacation in the hotel had found out what had happened and via Twitter, Facebook, and a barrage of cell phone calls, the news spread like a wildfire . . . the snowball grew bigger and bigger until finally half the mountain gave way to its weight.
By early afternoon a current affairs news commentator was on the case, tossing accusations around like cheap beads at Mardi Gras and comparing events with similar cases of years past. She had some poor clueless official on her program via satellite ripping him a new one for the incompetence of the local police, barraging him with insults while he stood and gave his approved answers in short, apologetic replies. The tourist strip in Cancun was now littered with Associated Press vehicles while famous newscasters stood outside of the Noche Salvaje recounting the last hours leading up to Taylor ’s disappearance. By that afternoon, less than 24 hours after the kidnapping, it was worldwide. Parents all over the United States were calling their children in Cancun for spring break ordering their immediate return. The bars and restaurants were at half yesterday’s occupancy. People were staying in their hotels and the markets were quiet. Fear and apprehension was on every face to be seen.
Jim and Amy Woodall were sitting at a conference table at the Hutton Cancun. Jim was tall with graying thin brown hair and tanned skin from his weekend golfing getaways. He was 48, but now looked more like 68 under the stress and lack of sleep.
Amy was four years younger, though looked much the same. Her hair was pulled back in a quick ponytail and she wore no makeup. She sat in a chair in a pair of shorts that had been close by when they got the call and a UT orange T-shirt she’d gotten on a recent visit to Taylor’s school. She had sandy blond hair, crisp green eyes like her daughter, and a similar complexion to Jim, who she often joined on the weekends.
The hotel’s Melbourne Ballroom was now ground zero for the search for Taylor Woodall. It had 9,652 square feet which could be broken up into four separate areas and could hold up to 1,000 people. Barriers and tables were being erected upon its red and tan carpet creating separate designated areas including a media relations section with a podium for when officials needed to make public statements and deal with the
“There’s not much further to go,” said Jose. He pulled out a map from the glove box and turned on the dome light. “Just take the county roads ahead. We can take this one and get off the highway and it goes all the way down. Look.” He pointed to a line on the map.
“Ok, that will work,” said Hector. “But keep a look out. There’s going to be cops swarming around here pretty soon.”
A few miles later, just as Yesenia looked back and saw a speck of light flashing in the far distance, the Suburban turned down a thin county road. She stared behind her as the black patch of highway began dwindling away. She imagined at any second she’d see a dozen police cars suddenly turn down the road speeding after them. Her eyes stayed glued to the road, her heart trying to decide if she wanted to see the police coming after them or not.
They made a curve around a bend, cutting off her view of the highway, and after a few minutes Yesenia began to breathe norma lly again as they put more miles behind them. What have I done? She asked herself. How did I let myself end up with people? It all seemed to keep going from bad to worse and what scared Yesenia the most now was wondering how much worse it could get.
Chapter 10
Ten hours. That’s the approximate time it took for all hell to break loose in Cancun. It was like an avalanche that began rolling down the hill that morning. Univision, the Hispanic television channel, broke the story in the United States on their morning news channel, followed by KHOU 1 1 in Houston. Other students on vacation in the hotel had found out what had happened and via Twitter, Facebook, and a barrage of cell phone calls, the news spread like a wildfire . . . the snowball grew bigger and bigger until finally half the mountain gave way to its weight.
By early afternoon a current affairs news commentator was on the case, tossing accusations around like cheap beads at Mardi Gras and comparing events with similar cases of years past. She had some poor clueless official on her program via satellite ripping him a new one for the incompetence of the local police, barraging him with insults while he stood and gave his approved answers in short, apologetic replies. The tourist strip in Cancun was now littered with Associated Press vehicles while famous newscasters stood outside of the Noche Salvaje recounting the last hours leading up to Taylor ’s disappearance. By that afternoon, less than 24 hours after the kidnapping, it was worldwide. Parents all over the United States were calling their children in Cancun for spring break ordering their immediate return. The bars and restaurants were at half yesterday’s occupancy. People were staying in their hotels and the markets were quiet. Fear and apprehension was on every face to be seen.
Jim and Amy Woodall were sitting at a conference table at the Hutton Cancun. Jim was tall with graying thin brown hair and tanned skin from his weekend golfing getaways. He was 48, but now looked more like 68 under the stress and lack of sleep.
Amy was four years younger, though looked much the same. Her hair was pulled back in a quick ponytail and she wore no makeup. She sat in a chair in a pair of shorts that had been close by when they got the call and a UT orange T-shirt she’d gotten on a recent visit to Taylor’s school. She had sandy blond hair, crisp green eyes like her daughter, and a similar complexion to Jim, who she often joined on the weekends.
The hotel’s Melbourne Ballroom was now ground zero for the search for Taylor Woodall. It had 9,652 square feet which could be broken up into four separate areas and could hold up to 1,000 people. Barriers and tables were being erected upon its red and tan carpet creating separate designated areas including a media relations section with a podium for when officials needed to make public statements and deal with the
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