Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Guaire River is Caracas' principal river that drains from the city's valley into the Tuy River. It's 44.73 miles long and crosses the city to the southeast. During the rainy season, it's not uncommon for the river to overflow, sometimes claiming people's cars and even their lives. Because it constitutes the main drainage for sewage water, it's highly polluted. So when I say I was in deep shit, I mean it literally.

I struggle to keep my head afloat. Just the thought of all the human waste around me makes the concept of drowning in this river a punishment worthy of Hades itself. I manage to gasp for air a few times, desperately trying to keep the water from entering my mouth. Getting shot would have been the better choice.

I crash into something big. I don't know what it is, nor do I care. I hug the chunk of metal like it's my mother, and pull my head out of the water immediately gasping for air. The current underneath the small bridge isn't as strong, probably due to all the crap accumulated at the bottom. Using the scrap metal, I inch my way to shore, and crawl out. I'm so thankful I could cry. I take a few seconds to catch my breath before I make it to the street above me. I immediately recognize the Chuao Freeway not too far from where I fell into the river.

What have I done? I think, lying on my back catching my breath. I just shot the president and I don't have the slightest idea why. I just knew it had to be done, but why? This doesn't make any sense; I must be losing my mind. What's worse, I fled the scene, but what was I supposed to do? I was afraid, confused, and people were firing at me. I'm no stranger to shooting people, but this was different. It felt like a war flashback, yet I was completely aware of where I was and what I was doing.

I take my phone out hoping it still works. No such luck. I can't go back to my apartment; that's the first place the authorities will look for me, and the last thing I want is to drag Trishna into this madness. I don't know what to do. All I know is I need to keep myself safe and find a lawyer or someone who can help me, before the local authorities can get to me. Then I can worry about making sense of what's going on.

OK, this is no different from any other mission, I think. All I need to do is let instinct take over and fall back on my training. I run in the direction of the Centro Comercial Ciudad Tamanaco, a large shopping mall nearby where I can get out of these clothes and figure out what to do next. Traffic is bad due to the rain, but it makes a soaking wet guy running for cover between trees and buildings look normal. I finally reach the mall and take refuge underneath the vast parking structure. Rolling my sleeves up and sleeking my hair back, I try to make myself look presentable. I take a deep breath and enter the place like I own it. Never mind that I just took a bath in sewage, and that my shoes squish conspicuously when I walk. My next move has to be fast.

"Good evening, I need your help," I say, walking right to the counter of the men's store and hoping it will somewhat hide my pitiful state.

"You can't walk in the store soaking wet like this," says the young salesman pointing to the door. I hear one of his co-workers laughing quietly in the background.

"I really need your help. Are you the manager?" I say as I take my wallet out and try to look quite serious.

"I'm the manager," says a man approaching me. "And you need to get out of my store."

"I have 50 dollars plus whatever I buy if you help me out." I pull two twenties and a ten from my wallet.

The manager looks at the money and then looks at me as if trying to find out what my angle could possibly be. In a country where there's a prolific black market exchanging dollars, the American currency can open many doors, and make you many friends.

"What happened to you?" he says still uncertain.

"I got caught in the rain and I can't go home like this. Can you please help me out? I'll make it worth your while." I offer him the money. The employees watch us expectantly.

"OK, but what about your clothes?" he says, taking the 50 dollars.

"Give me a plastic bag and I'll take care of it," I say.

I buy a full set of clothes, including an extra-large T-shirt to dry myself off, a wallet, a baseball hat and some shades to hide my face. I place the wet clothes inside the bag that was given to me.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate your help," I say to the manager as I pay cash.

"You're welcome," he says as he looks at my bare feet and laughs. "You can get some shoes down the hall."

"I will. Thank you." The worst part is over.

As I walk down the corridor, I see a large group of people gathered in front of an electronics store. The last time I saw something like this was during a World Cup match, but this time the people aren't cheering.

I take advantage of the situation and dump my bag in a trashcan before approaching the stunned crowd. Half a dozen TVs of all sizes are displaying the same image. The reporter is live from the Eurobuilding Hotel.

"...at this time we don't have that information. The vice president will be making a statement shortly, as well as the head of the DISIP. What we do know is that the killer fell into the Guaire River. The DISIP, as well as the Criminal, Penal and Scientific Investigations Corps, do not exclude the possibility that the assassin might still be on the loose. We will have a full description of the perpetrator in just a few minutes. Again, Jorge, this is a sad day for all Venezuelans. The president has been shot to death at the Eurobuilding Hotel."

My head starts to pound like a jackhammer; images of me holding a gun, and people running away screaming, flood my mind. I feel that empty sensation of a freefall. I killed him.

"They shot the president!" a man screams next to me startling me back to reality.

"That had to be the gringos!" another man says. "Goddamned CIA! They should all burn in hell!"

"Bravo! At last that fucker is dead!" a woman yells.

"At last!" a man cheers.

"Die once and for all, you son of a bitch!"

Women begin to cry, and the yelling and cursing grow louder. Arguments get heated, and words turn into shoves. One side accuses the other of selling out their country to the Americans; the other condemns the people loyal to the president for advocating communism under the true leadership of Castro.

I have to get out of here fast, so I walk into an outdoors store. The people inside are rattled by the commotion, but they don't seem to know what's going on yet. They don't notice me sitting in their store putting on some socks, and trying to get a hold of myself.

"Can I get these in forty-five please?" I say to a salesman weakly while avoiding eye contact.

"Sure," he mutters; he's more interested in what's going on outside.

This can't be happening! How could I have shot the president? I think, as I make sure no one can see my face.

"Do you know what's going on?" the salesman says handing me a shoe.

"No," I say, while lacing up as fast as I can. Luckily, the salesman's attention is still on the growing crowd outside, which has broken out into a few fistfights. "I'll take them. I don't need the box, I'll wear them."

"Very well," says the salesman, who seems disappointed by my indifference to his comments.

I quickly browse through the waterproof jackets and pick one. Once again I pay cash. I'm in such a hurry that I forget to pay for the socks, but no one notices. By now everyone in the mall seems to know what happened to the president, and mall security is trying to control the rowdy mob.

I make a discreet exit into the street, where dozens ofmotorcycle messengers seek cover from the rain under a pedestrian overpass. Iflag down a beat-up '82 Caprice Classic. The only clue it's a taxi is the illuminated,broken plastic sign on the roof. The driver looks at me through the rearviewmirror when I get in. "Where to, pal?"