Seven Minutes to Noon

“Is there somewhere we can make a call?”
    By the time they got the café’s phone plugged in and had established a dial tone, then managed a connection to the local police, who contacted Interpol, the FBI and ultimately Frannie Viola at the Seventy-sixth Precinct in Brooklyn, New York... by the time the local roads, highways and airports at Puerto Vallarta and Mexico City had been sealed... it was too late.
    They were gone.
    Later that night, lying in bed under a draping white mosquito net, Alice asked Mike, “What did Tim say to you?”
    Hands clasped behind his head on the white pillow, Mike smirked. “‘I love her.’” He rolled over to face Alice. “Who do you think he meant? Ivy or Analise?”
    “I’m not sure,” Alice said. The cool humidity fast against her skin, she pushed off the white sheet and closed her eyes.