Tampa Burn (10 page)

“I will then rescue the boy,” Balserio had told him. “It will be something to be done for cameras. But you will escape, Praxcedes. That I promise you! You will escape, and I will become an even more popular national hero. And you, of course, will be rich with the additional money I'll pay you in my gratitude.”

That last part, Prax didn't believe. What he believed was, Balserio planned to murder him during the boy's rescue. Get that on film, and the people of Masagua wouldn't just make him president, they'd make him king.

Lourdes used his big hand to pat the driver on the shoulder. Felt him shrink away as he said, “Tell you what: Show me the cash. Let me count it first—you're going to give it to me in a couple of hours anyway. Then I'll tell you what almost no one else knows about me. What the soldiers did, and what I've done to a bunch of those bastards since. All the juicy little details. Deal?”

 

 

THE money was right there in the car. Reynaldo had it hidden in the space where the spare tire had been kept. He watched Lourdes count it—a little less than seventy-five thousand dollars—before they got back into the car.

Prax didn't tell Reynaldo the whole deal. He'd never told anyone the entire truth. He just told him about the soldiers, and the hospital, and about how he'd dedicated his life to taking revenge for all the poor peasants.

Same old bullshit.

Just as he didn't tell him he was going to double-cross that pompous asshole, Jorge Balserio. That he was going to steal the money
and
the kid, then split.

He had everything all set: A guy he'd bullied at the national library to do the Internet stuff for him, because he would need to have e-mails forwarded once he and the kid were in hiding. Plus, his own chartered plane, not Balserio's. And a ship. An old freighter, but with an infirmary that was going to be very specially equipped once he got his hands on that money.

So he was tempted to tell the General's little stooge that he was going to burn Balserio—but burn him in a different kind of way. It would've fed Lourdes' ego to let an insider know that he was outsmarting the famous man.

But he didn't. Didn't say a word, even though he'd already decided that the driver would never get the chance to tell anyone.

THE
olfactory memory has no linkage in time, so reading e-mail over Pilar's shoulder, our bodies so close, her familiar odor reconnected us across years. I might, once again, have been with the woman whom I believed to be my love.

The temptation was to rest my hand on her shoulder. But she no longer invited that kind of familiarity.

She read the kidnapper's e-mail aloud, first in Spanish, then made a quick translation into English for Tomlinson's benefit, her voice animated:

“On Wednesday, May seventh, at two in the afternoon, be at the Cacique Restaurant on West Flagler near Northwest Miami Court. It's across from the Dade County courthouse in downtown Miami. You'll hear from us. Don't bring the money. If you contact the police, if you're followed, your brat dies. Answer this so we know you got it.”

The e-mail was unsigned, the subject line blank. It came from an Internet address that seemed to be a random series of letters and numbers:
xyxq37.

Because she was a mother, though, and because it was the human thing to do, she'd opened Lake's e-mail first—which is why it was so difficult to control the emotion in her voice as she read aloud.

His note—if he'd actually written it—was distressing:

That Lake switched in reference from “they” to “he,” I noted, was suggestive.

Seeing his e-mail name,
Chamaeleo@Nicarado,
at the bottom of the note produced an unexpected surge of emotion in me.

It was an unusual name chosen by an unusual boy. It'd taken some thought.
Chamaeleon
is the genus of wise-cracking lizards once used in popular beer commercials. Kinda funny.

Over time, though, I learned the name had more complex meanings.
Chamaeleon
is also the genus of certain sea iguanas similar to those found in the Galapagos Islands. Charles Darwin drew important inferences from the iguanas while aboard the HMS
Beagle
touring South America, making notes that led to his theory of natural selection.

Lake had finally told me that.

Impressive.

I'd added my own third interpretation: Chameleons adapt and change appearance fast—something that would appeal to a boy his age.

I think most parents come to learn what I was slow to realize: It is the unwise adult who assumes that youth automatically equates to an absence of depth and wisdom. Children are
complicated.

Reading over Pilar's shoulder, smelling the good odor of hair and skin, I said, “They want you to respond. What are you going to say?”

“I'll write that I'm going to do exactly what they tell me to do. I don't want them to hurt Laken. What do you expect?”

“I think you should add something like . . . well, that you aren't cooperating with authorities, but you
are
bringing a male friend to Miami. Because I'm going with you. Big cities can be dangerous. Write something like that. Even if you aren't carrying the money, you need protection. Say there're no cops involved, but you have to watch out for your own safety.”

“And what if they write back and tell me to come alone?”

“Pretend like you didn't get the e-mail. Don't acknowledge it.”

Because she was shaking her head, not buying it, I added, “Look, Pilar, there's something very basic you need to keep in mind here. You're a target. What some might consider an easy target. Stop shaking your head and listen.

“You're the one who told us there are people in the Masaguan government who know you're picking up a half-million in cash from the consul general's office. Two feds saw the DVD, heard the demands. So now maybe their entire office knows. Or staff members in dozens of offices. You can't trust them.
Your
words.

“Then there're the kidnappers. They know you're here, which means that everyone associated with them knows. What's to stop one or more of them from trying to intercept you? Cut you out and steal the money for themselves? That's what makes you a target. Day or night, from the moment you pick up the briefcase at the consul, you're a target. It puts you right in the middle.”

I puzzled over something for a few seconds before it came to me. “American Indians used to form two lines and make prisoners run between them; hit them with sticks and clubs and stuff—
gauntlet,
that's the word. Running the gauntlet. With that much cash involved, you could be attacked from either side at any time. So I'm going with you to Miami.”

Tomlinson said, “Doc's right. You can count me in, too.”

“When you write back, there's something else you should add,” I told her. “Lake's next message needs to contain something personal. That only you or I would know. Something that tells us the e-mails are really from him.”

My meaning had implications so dark that she didn't comment. Just nodded.

NOW
we were on the bottom deck of my house, Pilar standing, watching Tomlinson and me preparing to return the sedated tarpon from its holding tank into the bay. The fish had been in the tank for nearly an hour. Gill coloring and opercula rate were both fine. So far, this first step in what would be a long and complicated series of procedures had gone well.

Like everything else in my life lately, my luck had been good.

Until now.

I am forever and alternately amused then pissed off at how blindly I stumble through life. How is it that I keep forgetting one of the most powerful laws of physics? It is the law of “momentum conservation.” The law states that momentum lost by any collision or impact is equal to the opposite momentum gained.

The law applies to our own day-to-day lives because, during good times or bad, we need to remind ourselves that just when it seems life can't get any better—or worse—things inevitably change.

And my life had been going very, very well. Lucky in life. Lucky in health. Lucky in love.

I'd been running, swimming, and lifting weights daily with Dewey, who was not just my lover but my all-time favorite, kick-butt workout buddy. With her drill sergeant goading, I'd started eating better, watching my diet.

Something else: A while back, I'd given up alcohol. Had to. I'd gotten into the dangerous habit of drinking myself to sleep every night. So I quit. I piled all the bottles of booze into a box, marched them down to the dock, and left them buried in the marina ice machine for some thirsty soul to discover.

Many months later, when I mentioned to Dewey that I missed having a beer or two at sunset with the rest of the marina family, she offered a suggestion that was as appealing as it was simple. She said, “Do you remember when we first met? Weeknights, you never let yourself drink more than three beers. Ever. Weekends, you'd cut it a little looser, but you never broke your weekday rule. Even for parties. Why not go back and do that?”

Which is exactly what I did. No more than three drinks a night. Ever.

So I was in the best shape I'd been in the last ten years or so. I was enjoying the slow and lazy existence that is life at a small marina on the west coast of Florida. I had tropical blue mornings, glassy slick days on the bay, and Gulf Stream sun-sets with cold beer in hand.

For work, I was involved with this new research project. I had a chance to play a role in being among the first scientists to devise a way to strip tarpon of fresh sperm, called
milt,
use it to fertilize eggs in captivity, and then raise the hatchlings until they were mature enough to release.

Life had never been better. Which is why I should have known my luck was due to change. But why did the Fates have to choose my son? The world always seems at its cruelest when it selects a child as an instrument of misfortune.

Holding the tarpon's lower jaw, my right arm cradling its belly, I lifted the fish from the tank, then carried him along the boardwalk, taking quick, short steps because of his weight and slickness. His tail made a heavy, drug-dulled fanning thud against my inner bicep.

Once on the mangrove bank, I waded into waist-deep water, immersing the fish, walking him, forcing clean bay water through his gills. It would be a while before he recovered and I could release him.

Tomlinson was beside me, still shirtless, bony ribs showing, baggy Gandhi shorts dragging in the water. He said, “I'm sorry, Doc. What a soul downer. Because of my ex-love, the Nipponese mummy—her and her beef jerky heart—I can't see my daughter. The girl's been poisoned against me. But the thought of someone snatching Nichola makes me want to cry. I
could,
too. Right now. Bawl like a baby. I know how you must feel.”

I said, “Something like this happens, it's like a light goes on. Why the hell didn't I spend more time with him? Why not get off my dead ass, grab a plane, and make the occasional visit? I'm the one who should have taught him how to fish, play ball. That sort of thing. Instead, we just traded e-mails. Now look what's happened.”

“Don't do that, man. Don't do the punishment gig. Besides, we both know why you couldn't go visit. It's because of
her.
”

Tomlinson swung his head toward my stilt house. “It's because of the woman, Pilar. You think you're still in love with her, man.”

I said, “It's that obvious?”

“Oh yeah. You look at her like she's a combination religious shrine and delicious morsel. Every time you'da went to Masagua to visit, it woulda been like having your heart winched out through the bunghole. No way, man. That's why you didn't go. You
couldn't
go.”

After a moment, he added, “In my opinion, it was for the best.”

Looking at the fish, but concentrating on something else, I said, “T.M.? You've got good instincts. Probably the best of any person I've ever met. The way Pilar reacted to me . . . well, what's your impression?”

He said, “She's not an easy one to read, man. A monster grabs her child, and she can still keep the emotional shields in place. How many women would be as calm as her under these circumstances? But, yeah, I definitely tuned right in on the vibes about you—weird that she'd let them show when she's so good at the stoicism bit. You're not going to like what I have to say.”

“That's O.K. Tell me the truth.”