Skull of the Zipa PREVIEW CHAPTERS by Chuck Chitwood (best book club books for discussion .txt) 📕

After enjoying a brief celebration with Stacey and Morgan I saw the little red-haired jerk helping clear the track for the next race. I caught up with him after he walked behind the field house to stack the hurdles and spun him around by his shoulders. The other freshmen scattered.

I pinned him against the wall. “What did you do to my hurdles?”

“I didn’t do…”

Taking a step back, I threw a roundhouse kick just inches from his nose. My Uncle Ami would be furious at me for using my skills to intimidate someone who was not a threat but I decided it would be a valuable learning moment for the twerp. “Look, I’ve studied martial arts for eight years, punk. I know it was you. Now, tell me why you did it?”

He swallowed hard and looked for his friends to help him out but they scattered. “Courtney said she’d kiss me if I put rocks under your hurdles. She’s hot, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” I shoved him into the side of the field house. “Trust me, kid she’d never go through with it. She’d find a way to embarrass you instead. That’s how Courtney rolls.”

He looked dejected. “Yeah, I kinda thought so. Hey, I’m sorry, Haddie. It was a great race. I’m glad you won.” Then he took off, giving me double thumbs up as he scurried away.

I heard my father’s voice and turned to see him with his arms outstretched. My father always hugged me after a race, regardless of the sweat and smell. “Great job, Haddie. You won state. Now let’s go get your knee checked out.” 

As we walked back towards the bleachers he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat off my face. A few years ago, this would have embarrassed me. But now I understand that it’s just his little ritual and I knew it wouldn’t last too much longer, so I decided to savor the moment.

My father put the cloth away then he pulled out an envelope. “I think this is for you.”

I rubbed my finger over the raised crimson letters of the return address: Harvard University, Office of Admissions. Only the envelope was already opened. “Uh, Dad?”

“Sorry, kid, I couldn’t wait. I had to see what they said.”

“You know that’s a federal offense.”

“So sue me.”

My hands shook as I scanned the page quickly not really comprehending the words. But I did pick up the words “track scholarship” and “academic scholarship.” I did the math in my head then jumped into my father’s arms screaming, “Full ride!”

“I’m so proud of you, kid.”

That was a great day. No. It was the best day of my life. I had scored a date to the prom with Chance Baker which was awesome, I’d just won the state championship for my division, I’d received a letter from Harvard telling me I had earned a full ride to the prestigious university, and I got to enjoy an ice cream sundae with my dad. Yes, all in all, it was an absolutely perfect day. I wish I could go back to that day.

But no.

The hazy memory of my perfect day and the state championship fades and I feel a rough hand stroking my cheek. My mind tries to grapple with my situation. Everything is wrong. But it only takes a minute to remember my perilous situation especially since I’m now face to face with the pudgy man. No, it’s more like I’m nose to nose with him which is two inches worse. Apparently, he has the first night watch. Looking at the stub of the cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth, I imagine his last bath was months ago. Or if I am judging solely by the stench of his body and the foul smell of fish and beer on his breath, it might have been at least a year.

The ropes dig into my wrists. Luckily, I’m able to bring my bound hands to my face to keep his hot, moist breath off me. “Hola, Haddie Green. Santiago – he say to me you will be mine when we are finished with you.” He emitted a gruff laugh that led to a cough and other bodily noises. 

Gross. He’s . . . he’s Jabba the Hut’s ugly little brother.

Hanging there like I am makes thinking clearly almost impossible. But it doesn’t stop me from goading the smelly kin of Jabba. I twist and turn my hands trying to loosen the ropes. “Well, I cannot wait to meet this Santiago to tell him thank you. And when, pray tell, will Santiago be finished with me? I can’t tell you how excited I am to grab a cup of coffee with you; maybe we can discuss our favorite bands. Are you a Coldplay kind of guy? Or are you living Livin’ la Vida Loca here in the jungle?”

He squeezed my face like a vice grip. “Ha. You es divertida. You make me laugh, Haddie Green. But no one is coming for you and no one knows you are here. And when you lead Santiago to what he wants, no one will need you any more. So you will be mine. Then you can bite my hand all you want.”

His head moves slowly like one of those cheesy romantic movies where the first kiss takes ten minutes. His lips are cracked and chapped by the sun. Black stubble and sweat dried dirt covers his face. And with the various odors that drift off his body, I decide he and the others must have been traipsing through the jungle for days. His face gets closer to mine. And before his diseased looking lips get too close to my mouth, I gather up as much saliva as I can muster and spit in his bloodshot eyes.

“Estúpida chica!”

He smacks my face and I start to spin. Pain radiates from my cheekbone and travels to the back of my head to my neck. He stops me from spinning and I manage to spit once again at him even though I feel like I am going to pass out. I scream, “Leave me alone!”

Stink-face’s bandaged hand grabs my lower jaw and he waves his index finger in my face. “You see this, chica? You gonna pay for what you did to me one way or the other.”

I scream louder, “Leave me alone! You’re hurting me.”

Finally, I see movement in one of the tents. Then a sleepy kid no older than me stumbles out. He’s wearing a dirty white t-shirt and green shorts. He yawns and stretches before turning my way. Jabba junior glares at me as the young guy jogs over to us.

The skanky thug pulls his dirty hand off my face. “¿Pablo está usted loco? Va a tener problemas con el jefe”

I pay close attention to the conversation. But they’re speaking so fast it’s hard to keep up. At least I know his name. Pablo.

Pablo shoves the kid. “Silencioso Mauricio. ¿Ves lo que ella hizo para mi mano?” He raises his bandaged hand angrily to the kid called Mauricio like he might slap him.

I stifle a laugh when I realize Pablo is whining about his hand. I guess stinky Pablo didn’t like being bitten.

But Mauricio doesn’t even flinch at Pablo’s threat. He just shrugs his shoulders, as if he doesn’t care what Pablo does and tells him, “Okay. Pero estar en silencio. No despiertes Santiago. Recuerda lo que le pasó a Sergio.”

I wish I’d paid better attention in Spanish class. Geez, think Haddie. What does ‘Recuerda lo que le pasó’ mean? You have seriously got to brush up on your Spanish when you get home. Well, whatever it means, it wasn’t good for Sergio.

Pablo spits on the ground. “Esta chica no es la mujer de Santiago. Cuando ella le dice a Santiago lo que él quiere para saber ella es mía.”

I roll my eyes. Ella es mía? Oh, no Pablo. I am not yours. Nope.

Mauricio makes the shape of a gun with his hand and aims it between Pablo’s eyes. “Disparo Sergio entre los ojos. Un minuto, Sergio está comiendo arepas de huevo y beber chocolate caliente y luego...” He moves his thumb as if he’s shooting a gun. “Boom! No más Sergio. Ponele. Me observarla, por ti, Pablo.”

I might not be a UN translator but it’s not difficult to figure out that whoever the guy named Sergio was, he ticked off Santiago enough that Santiago shot and killed him. Mental note: Don’t make Santiago mad.

“Okay, okay.” Pablo takes the rifle off his shoulder and hands it to Mauricio as the two start to walk away. Pablo turns back towards me. “Regresaré por ti, chica. I come back for you.”

I. Hate. That. Man. Sure, yeah. You come back for me Pablo. Cut me down from this tree and I’ll knock you winding faster than you can say God Bless America!

They walk off into the darkness just out of earshot and I strain to hear what they are saying. But it’s impossible. I watch Mauricio light up a cigarette. The flame from the lighter illuminates his young face. Geez, he looks kind of like one of my friends in New Providence, except for the tattoo of a jaguar on his neck.

Safe from Pablo for the time being, I try to figure out what in the world this Santiago guy could possibly need me for. It’s gotta have something to do with my dad. But I don’t have anything. For Pete’s sake, I just got to South America. All I brought with me is my backpack, a couple of changes of clothes, my passport, some money, and my father’s notebook. Wait. Is that what they want? His journal? That’s got to be it. Geez, these guys might have guns but they’re idiots. They kidnapped me and left my bag in the room. How stupid is that? Maybe they think I memorized the thing. Is there a stronger word than stupid?

As I hang there, I know have to get away. And I know I am the only one who can do anything to make that happen. I take in as deep a breath as I can get and let out a blood curdling scream followed by, “Pablo stop it! You’re hurting me! No Pablo!”

The pudgy man races back to me and covers my mouth with his bandaged hand. “What you try to do, get me muertos? I do nothing to you.”

I look beyond him and see people emerge from the tents and I count six men staggering from their sleep in the darkness towards me. Is one of them Santiago?

Then I see the flap on tent farthest from me open slowly and a tall, dark man with a fat mustache steps out. His shoulders are square and he looks like a brick wall. He moves deliberately as if he expects the trees to bow down to him. Santiago.

As Santiago comes closer, I see a jagged scar that starts at the corner of his left eye and goes all the way down to his mustache. Then I notice the rest of his face is scarred with pockmarks. He must have had the worst case