Braving the Shadows

By Hal McFarland

Summary of Braving the Shadows






Local leaders in a village in Cucuta, Colombia struggle with ways to improve their town and to prevent the continued encroachment of land-grabbers and an over zealous government. At the same time, half a world away, a small town in Kentucky is struggling to unravel a murder and a counterfeiting ring.

It becomes apparent to the local sheriff and a Secret Service agent who have joined forces that the murder and counterfeiting problems are but a small part of their towns difficulties; and as they uncover the international nature of these crimes, the body count increases.

These two investigators are not many days into their case before they realize that there are very few people around them who are what they seem; and it is by ferreting out who they are not that the mystery is finally solves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496912961

Hal McFarland

Hal McFarland is a Burlington, Kentucky native, a graduate of Georgetown and Xavier Universities. He has also attended Butler University and, in Germany, the Goethe Institute. Connections is his seventh attempt at what he calls electronic immortality: some of his other works include A Dream Within a Dream, Fear the Moonlight, Farewell to Rosegate, Braving the Shadows, and The Life and Times of Dexter. Hal, with his wife, Barbara, (who is also an author and playwright) lives on a Western Boone County, Kentucky, farm, in a nineteenth-century barn which, over the course of a decade, has converted into their home.

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© 2014 HAL MCFARLAND. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/14/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1302-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1296-1 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This novel is a work of fiction, thus the names of characters, places, and incidents are strictly from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Prelude

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Biography

TO THE LADY WHO BROUGHT ME BACK TO LIFE

FOREWORD

J ust as the weather controlled the fate of my ancestors, so it controls me. My weakness is the outdoors—the sun, the rain, the summer storms, the calm—I love it all, and I find myself unable to ignore its attraction. In the same ways that some writers have trouble saying no to their favorite drink, I cannot resist what lies outside my window. I cannot—but with one caveat: winter. When the western winds whip past the corners of my office, it is no Siren’s call. The snow or sleet or bitter cold hold no allure for me. And so, during this record 2013 winter of misery, I have been content to write, unaffected by the whims of the gods of weather.

I owe considerable thanks to my story’s two faithful midwives: Alta Bradford, who has helped smooth out the occasional wrinkles in my writing; and my wife, Barbara, herself an author of innumerable books, who shared her creativity and her form of reality and, as a psychologist, was able to provide the emotional framework to my characters which made their decisions and their actions believable.

The many books over the last 15 years, which have dealt with international intrigue, have focused, far too often, in my opinion, on the Middle East. I have lost my infatuation with that theme: enough is enough; and so Barbara and I struggled to find an acceptable venue for my next novel, and it was she who mentioned the FARC (the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia). As I researched the early struggle of these common people in Colombia who had their land, their livelihood, their dignity, and often their very lives ripped from under them, I felt there was a story worth telling. As with most heroes, there are usually tragic flaws and so, too, with the villains: scratch them and they will bleed.

And, as an after thought, I wondered—how would a small town react when evil is insinuated upon it—and so my novel was born.

PRELUDE:

Grandmother

T he small, carved figure of the Blessed Virgin hung above the narrow, almost monastic, bed. Was someone there? What was to be made of the rich arresting aroma of freshly ground and brewed coffee wafting through the room? The coffee. That’s what started it all. Gina Maria smiled knowingly.

She wasn’t afraid to die. Actually, she preferred to be alone when the Angel of Death swooped her up in his arms. She had imagined, even welcomed, that moment many times throughout her long life.

"Humm. The coffee . . ." The strong smell swept her back to when she was a girl . . . Working in the coffee plantations: the rows of white flowers and their transformation into the deep crimson cherries. She reached for her right hand and gently massaged each finger, feeling the deep ridges, the callouses, the cracked and dried skin. These fingers made the plantation owners very, very rich, she mused. That should have been our land, she mumbled.

Ah yes. She smiled. As she caressed her hand, she was startled that two of her fingers were just stubs. She laughed out loud—a guttural, gurgling sound leapt from her lips. If anyone had been in the room, they might have thought it was a death rattle.

No, I’m not afraid to die, she said to the Blessed Virgin.

You see these fingers, Santisima Virgen? She lifted her right hand and held it up for the statute to see. I shot them off accidentally when I was fighting with my villagers. I had never used a weapon before. Small price to pay. We were fighting for what was rightfully ours. Such violence. Such bloodshed. The memories of her neighbors and fellow workers with arms and legs gone flooded her mind—blood turning the white flowers as red as the cherries, ripe within the coffee bean.

Fuerzas Armadas Revolutionarias de Colombia, she said, letting those words roll gently off her thickening tongue (The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia). Yes, the FARC was our mother—the spirit behind everything we did!

She was quiet for a long time. Trying to shake the images of blood and death away.

She slept.

Mama? Are you awake?

She was, but she knew the Angel was near, so she said nothing.

Her daughter gently touched her forehead—it felt like a sweet breeze to the old lady.

Mama, I love you.

She heard the door close quietly.

The Blessed Virgin could see that she was slipping.

Suddenly, the deathly silence was pierced by a laugh. No, more like a sharp shriek, followed by a raspy, wet cough.

She whispered and labored with each breath. I never told anyone I shot my own fingers off! Santisima Virgen, you are the first to know! My confession before we meet. I guess I must also confess to killing all those men. After I shot my fingers, I became quite a marksman, you know?

Sleep overtook her. Her body was feeling heavy, drowsy.

Her words came out slower and with much effort. You know, I was never like the other women in the village. There was always something different about me.

Silence.

"You also know that fighting and killing the grupo de elite was the right thing to do—we had to do it. We were pushed off our lands—pushed into the jungle. We peasants had been violated far too long. We really were human beings just wanting to live our lives with respect and dignity. Not like dogs.

"I thank you, Santisimo Virgen, for letting me, a lowly woman, fight alongside the rebels. Oh, yes. It was you.

"It was you . . . When I prayed and prayed so desperately . . . Asking you to please let me fight, fight for what I so believed in. It was you who answered my pleas . . ."

Her breathing began to slow down. The space between each breath became longer and longer.

She struggled to lift her head off the pillow; she looks straight at the Virgin Mary.

Was it worth it?

Her last breath brought a smile to her face.

The Granddaughter

From the time she could remember, she knew that she was pretty. All of her relatives and the villagers would comment on the deep, brown color of her eyes—spaced perfectly apart, the silkiness of her coal black hair, the unusual color and texture of her skin. Unlike the other girls, she had a bronze glow that seemed to emanate from her pores. Her body was equally beautiful—proportioned perfectly.

Breasts, not too large, but full enough to accentuate her waist. Yes, Gina Maria Calderon always knew God had been very good to her when it came to her looks. But what she was most grateful for was her inner being—her fiery temperament and the passion she brought to her beliefs; she was, in addition, fiercely loyal to those she loved. She did not attribute these qualities to the goodness of God, but rather to her namesake, her grandmother, a woman who fought in the revolution—who was a defender of the cause—of the peasants. On her tombstone Grandmother insisted on the engraving:

Gina Maria Calderon

One Peasant Woman Who Lived for the FARC.

It was no surprise then, when the Elders approached her. Actually, she was amazed they waited until she was 16, but she knew the reason. She had to be ready. She was one of two girls in her village who were allowed to stay in school… who were given books and the time to study. They needed her. Her looks made people take notice of her, but her intelligence and temperament made people uncomfortable.

Just like her grandmother before her, she lived in poverty but never in despair. Just as poverty served to propel her grandmother into the arms of the FARC, so, too, did it serve to remind her of what she believed her destiny to be.

Finally, when they approached her, she knew she would be going to another school—one that would indoctrinate her, instruct her in the FARC’s mission, purpose and reason for existing. Most importantly, the lessons would prepare her for her new life in America.

The year of special schooling for Gina went by quickly, and she gradually began to understand what her new role was and would be, forever; Once in the great land of opportunity, she would have but one objective: to find ways to accumulate money for the village FARC.

Her grandmother fought with her body—in hand-to-hand combat. Gina remembers the amazing stories she used to tell her about her Abuela. She always imagined that she, too, would lead an adventurous life for a noble cause for the FARC, as well as for herself. And the time was now.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

Gina Maria remembered vividly eight years earlier, the excitement of the entire village as they all, in a carnival-like atmosphere, walked her mother, Athena, to the edge of the village where an automobile was waiting to take her on her great adventure.

Gina’s mother had hugged her and whispered: You will join me soon. Don’t disappoint me.

Now, she understood the joy and the gravity of those words. The day following the choosing time, Gina was taken to Luis Hauc’s house, the largest in the village, where two others Elders, who were also representatives of the FARC committee, waited.

Everyone accepted the power and the purpose of the FARC—everyone followed their lead—always, and this would be true today, as well, for Gina.

The strategy, which was implemented 10 years ago, was gradually becoming beneficial to all members of this small community: money and goods began arriving within two years after the first chosen one left. Prior to the Elders’ plan, the daily income for each village member was less than two dollars.

She was the 10th to be sent; and what had originally been roundly criticized by the adjoining areas as a fool’s investment by the FARC was beginning to pay off handsomely. Their returns started first with just a few hundred dollars a year, then thousands, and now tens of thousands—enough to convince, even the most vocal naysayers in neighboring villages that it was time to mirror this plan—to begin expanding the network of safe homes in the United States.

This year’s tall, brown-eyed, light-skinned chosen one would be placed in Lexington, Kentucky in a safe house and, when ready, would enroll in the University of Kentucky.

Early on in her FARC-led indoctrination at Hauc’s, she began to understand the nature of her contribution to her relatives and her neighbors; and she was told that her purpose in the new world would be to accumulate money, by any means possible, and send it to the local FARC leaders who would then use it to improve the lives of everyone—and that these funds would also help them find ways to resist the encroachment of the land grabbers from Bogotá.

How will I make money? Gina asked, at one of her lessons.

You will think of ways, was the reply. Your new family in the safe house will guide you. But there are no methods that are forbidden by us or by the Church.

Gina gave that a lot of thought: There are no methods that are forbidden.

She has seen much bloodshed in her life, had witnessed robbery, murder, rape and much more. Is Elder Luis condoning all of these? How could the Church accept that doctrine?"

Yet, to protect her town from the marauders from the hills and the distant shores and from the scourge of grinding poverty, she felt she had to do whatever it took to bring them some comfort and safety.

About six months into her training, she wondered what would be the easiest way to make money based on the past winners’ contributions—those who had already gone to America. She asked Luis and he chuckled, Marry a rich man, of course.

How will I know if he’s rich?

The rich men that we have here are land owners and they raise coffee plants. We will send you to Kentucky where there is much land and where they raise tobacco.

CHAPTER ONE

(A small village outside Cucuta, Colombia)

L uis Houc was 74 years old and beginning to feel those years in his bones and in his beliefs. He had cut his teeth on the Marx-Lenin philosophies due to the government’s takeover of small farms in the interior of Colombia and because of the mass forced exodus of indigenous populations—over 6 million men, women, and children, driven from their land and their homes. He had fought for over half a century for his people, had done horrible things in order to survive and to advance the causes he so fervently believed in.

Anyone who looked at him closely would realize that they were face-to-face with no peasant farmer: his hair was full but was coarse and long, his face captivating in a way one is drawn to a fierce old dog—curious yet fearful; he exhibited a natural slope to his shoulders, not because of the plow but due to carrying rifles, ammunition, and other military accouterments over a lifetime; his stride was no longer springing but was still solid and resolute; and his mind remained sharp and wide ranging, from his extensive reading during downtime in remote camps or while in hiding or recovering from battle.

He accepted the changes his body was undergoing but was puzzled and somewhat troubled with his vacillating philosophy and goals for his people.

The signs, in the rear part of his front room, stacked against one wall, compelled him, as he saw them, to relive the momentous parts of his past.

Submission is not freedom.

Solidarity is not a crime.

Neutrality is not an option.

He had fought for all of them, of course, but the sign that was causing him the most soul-searching was a small one, leaning against his rifle:

Education not occupation.

He was troubled by it, yes, but not for the obvious reasons that a fighting man in the FARC would be. It was because of Gina Marie Calderon, his most financially productive woman, who was sent, some years ago, to the United States. She was beginning to understand the effectiveness of her contributions to the FARC’s cause and was now making demands on how the local FARC used her money. Maybe demands was too strident a word, more like strong suggestions. She wanted some of her money to be earmarked for the building of a school for girls.

This caused Luis to lose sleep: in the past, and it had occurred before, when one of his moneymaking machines became too involved, too vocal, in how her contributions were being used, he, as controlling leader of the local FARC, would simply have her recalled for as long as it took for her to realize that her place in his organization was not to demand or even suggest directions for the leadership to go. A woman’s role was to submit to her family, her husband, and her village, and most importantly, to the FARC leadership. The United States always seemed to try to remold this natural order for his women. He expected it, and for many years had plans for when this would happen—but still he was not able to understand exactly what influenced the brightest and most beautiful women under his tutelage to undergo such a metamorphosis once they lived in the United States for a few years. Usually, after some time back in the village, under the guidance of her family and the village as a whole, this flight of fantasy would disappear, and she would be ready to and allowed to return to the United States to continue her role.

However, as of late, these beliefs, which Luis held so dearly and fought for so long, were coming under siege—but under siege from within himself. Because of the peace talks in Cuba, change was in the air. Hopefully the 6 million displaced peasants and the 200,000 who were killed during the fighting of half a century would not have suffered and would not have died in vain.

Peace for the FARC would only be agreed upon if their demands were met: redistribution of land was at the top of the list; rural development was also very important; the rebuilding and resettlement of villages was a must.

The end of narcotrafficking was one of the major demands of the government: Luis understood this, but it was a real concern to him as to how Colombia would replace the drug income of $700 million per year. His Women to America program was of great help to the local village but a pittance compared to the needs of the country as a whole.

Before the La Violencia of the 1940s and 50s, local peasants were able to subsist from the bounty of their own small plots of land; it was a harsh life and presented little hope for the future beyond the belief that there would always be food on the table.

There had been too much suffering and too many deaths to accept the return to that kind of life again. There must be a better way—a promise of something beyond mere survival. And that was one of the two topics for today’s FARC meeting at Luis Houc’s house. The other was Gina’s request for a girl’s school.

Luis greeted his two old comrades with a handshake followed by an embrace, and they move slowly into the kitchen where Rosa had strong coffee and Arepa Boyacense ready for them; and as they lifted their mugs, they, in unison, said, ‘To the comrades left behind.’ There was never a doubt in their minds that the spirits of those lost in earlier battles continued to share these meetings with them.

José Gonzales, the youngest, at 70, opened with his report on the finances of the village—the income from taxes on the drugs, the shared income from the kidnapping of the Calabozo mayor, and, of course, on the Women in America. José had a deep and resonant voice, and the numbers he quoted were almost like chords of music—especially since the report was a very positive one on the funds that were flowing into their coffers. José was a short man and, as he stood at the kitchen table, reading his report, it seemed as though he were still seated—but to the listeners, he was the tallest of all, due to his exploits during the many running battles with the government forces. He was the explosives expert—could blow up anything and had, over previous decades, exhibited his courage under fire too often to recount. Being a small, compact and agile fighter somehow allowed him the speed necessary when, on occasion, he had to out run an explosive device he had set on a very short timer; and he had outrun all of them except one: and that was the cause for his severe limp.

Jose’s report was on the progress of the Cuban peace talks. They had been going on for so many years that it was hard to believe that finally it seemed that there was a treaty on the horizon; and it was his report that led Luis to his own concerns.

If there is a settlement, Luis began, our village will be rebuilt and the hundreds of our people who have fled to the jungles will return, will again till their soil, and will again eke out a meager existence as they did in earlier times. They deserve more. How can we help them?

The old ways are good enough for me, Manual countered. Isn’t that what we’ve been fighting for? Isn’t that the dream of so many of our displaced people: to return to their land, to the old ways?

Manual Botero was the largest of the three at almost six feet; and the years of jungle fighting had hardened his body so that if he were to remove his shirt, one would see, in addition to numerous scars, a preponderance of dedicated muscle.

José, what you think? Luis asked.

Yes, it would be wonderful for me to have my land back, and that, of course, is one reason I have fought for so long, but…

There was a long pause, an interlude that gave them all a chance to picture the old ways.

Luis broke the silence, "Don’t our people deserve more? And speaking selfishly, don’t we deserve more? Our people and our country are not the same as when we began fighting decades ago during La Violencia. We can’t just go back. We must be able to return to our land expecting to have more than a mere existence?

José, how much do we still owe the Russian mafia for those AK-47s and for the mortars? Luis asked.

What we have in our Bogotá bank will cover that bill, José replied. "But we still need to make a decision on those plates for