Tampa Burn (20 page)

His parents never associated his strange behavior with his head injury.

Lourdes hated them.

It was mutual.

So Nicaragua was a good bet. The fact that the government's military had secretly adopted a policy of racial genocide against his Moskito Indian tribe, Prax saw as a plus.

Like some sideshow fortune-teller, he'd nailed it.

War, he discovered, excused any outrage. By doing what he was driven to do, enjoying that rush, he became a hero. Then, lured to Masagua by money and more action, Prax Lourdes became
Incendiario.

He'd done what his sideshow parents had never managed to do. He'd become a headliner.

 

 

WHEN Lourdes was done talking, he had checked his watch and said to Reynaldo, “Get out of the car.”

Still uneasy, the driver said, “I don't mind waiting. I can stay here.”

Lourdes said, “Get out of the car.
Now.
The plane with the early edition of the
Miami Herald
's just landed. Plus, there's someone I want you to meet.”

Reynaldo followed the big man past trash barrels and the smoldering garbage dump to a metal building that had no windows. The chain on the door was already unlocked, and Prax opened it.

The driver was surprised by what was inside.

The building consisted of a main room that was equipped with things he'd seen once before in a surgical operating room in Managua. There was a steel table, gas canisters, a large overhead light, and surgical instruments on a stainless-steel table. On the walls were photos and diagrams of human faces. Several of the diagrams were more like engineer's drawings.

The equipment seemed very old, though. Reynaldo knew nothing about medicine. But even to him, it looked old.

Another surprise was that there was a man waiting for them. A very thin Mexican man with palsied hands and a head tremor. He was wearing a suit coat over a white shirt, and he looked even older than the surgical equipment.

Reynaldo expected to be introduced. Instead, Lourdes said to the man, without any explanation, “I don't think his skin's worth a shit. Too much time outdoors. What do you think?”

Whose skin? Such an odd thing to say.

The Mexican was sitting, sweating, his entire body shaking—a drug addict, Reynaldo realized.

The man peered at Reynaldo intensely for a moment before sagging back, seemingly disappointed. “Why do you even waste my time? I can't work with material like that.”

He added very quickly, “Did you bring my stuff?”

Lourdes said, “Yeah, but later,” as he stepped to the table and dropped a cotton swab that had a swash of red on it, and a vial that contained what looked to be a tiny amount of black liquid. “Stick this under the microscope and get me a blood type on this as quick as you can.”

Before the Mexican could speak, Lourdes added, “No, you old quack, it doesn't belong to this asshole. He's just my driver. It's someone else, so cross your fingers it's O-positive. You keep telling me eight out of ten people should match, so why have we had such shitty luck the last few tries?”

Reynaldo realized that the blood must belong to the boy, and the Mexican must be a doctor of some sort. Because now the man stood and, showing some authority for once, motioned for Lourdes to take off the mask.

Lourdes' back was to Reynaldo, but the driver still felt a neural chill as the big man stripped the mask off and rubbed at the patches of curly blond hair on the back of his head with his scarred, banana-sized fingers. He did it all with the same exaggerated mannerisms that nagged at the driver's memory and reminded him of something he'd seen as a child.

At a long ago circus?

Yes, that was it. The way the man moved, used his voice and hands, the fast, big gestures, it was the way clowns had behaved beneath that huge tent.

The clowns, Reynaldo remembered, had terrified him then, too.

The driver wanted to open the door and run, but he felt frozen as he watched the doctor reach expertly to touch places on Lourdes' face, his eyes focused, lips pursed. It was an expression he'd seen before on the faces of doctors when they were examining a patient.

“The nose is looking better. The eyelids are coming along. But the nose is definitely looking somewhat better. Discoloration doesn't always mean dead tissue, and a little infection is always to be expected when you have to work under these conditions.”

His tone showing only contempt, Lourdes replied, “Especially when the quack's a heroin junkie. Which is why I'm going off and finding myself an expert, you pathetic little weasel.”

The doctor had apparently heard the abuse before, because he only replied, “Yes, the nose seems better. Some color is coming into it. It may take yet. But this man—” He indicated Reynaldo. “He'd be of no use to us even if the decay had continued.”

Reynaldo remained frozen as Prax Lourdes then turned, showing him his full face—a big smile there—and used an elegant sweep of the arm, as if to introduce himself.

With the other hand, he tapped at something that sounded metallic in his pocket.

“Hear what the man said? The quack's got no use for you. That's kinda rude, don't you think, Reynaldo? So why don't we leave the asshole here, walk out by the trash dump, just the two of us. We can have ourselves a quick smoke?”

SEVERAL
minutes after I dialed 911 for the second time, I heard a car approaching from the distance. I hoped it was the Chevy driving into my trap. As the car neared, I could hear its shocks hammering, the vehicle going way too fast on the bad road.

It's the way law enforcement people sometimes drive on an emergency call.

Not good. It was way too early for the cops to show up. For me to pull this off, timing was key.

I stood tense, weapon in hand, panting, taking shallow gulps of air, hoping to hell it was the Chevy and not a sheriff's deputy. Hoping that I'd soon hear the car slow as it neared the logging trail . . . expecting it to decelerate because the Chevy's GPS tracker told them the rental Ford was hidden there. Then I expected the car to speed onward in my direction, searching for a place to turn around.

I'd get my first look at the jackal types who were after my son's ransom money, because there was only one place to turn around. It was this wide place in the road immediately in front of me. They wouldn't suspect a thing until I stepped out, weapon raised.

I willed the car to keep coming my way.

It didn't.

I heard the car slow as it closed on what I guessed to be the logging road. Then, after a short and sudden silence, I heard a single, muted
clunk
, followed by more silence, then . . . nothing.

For a minute or more, I sat stupidly in my little hiding place. The silence should have told me more than any amount of shouting or slamming of doors.

Then I knew: It wasn't a sheriff's squad car. It was the Chevy, all right. But the men inside hadn't behaved as anticipated. When they'd realized they were near the hidden Ford, they'd stopped. Decided to sneak in without a sound, but for the
clunk
of a single, closing car door latch.

When I comprehended, I lurched out of the pepper thicket, running but staying low, digging hard for traction in the sand and gravel . . . hoping I could still find a way to take them from behind. Take them by surprise, before they saw or heard me coming.

I shadowed the tree line as I neared the bend, then slowed to a walk before I peeked to have a look.

There it was, the black car. They'd parked the Chevrolet across the logging trail's entrance, blocking what they presumed was our escape route. They'd pulled the car into the brush in a hurry. The driver's door and a back door were open.

So, counting the two open doors, plus the muffled
clunk
of a door closing, there were at least three people . . . though none visible.

Still near the tree line, ready to dive for cover, I approached the car from its blind rear quarter, gun at eye level, combat position, both arms extended. When close enough, I swung to bring the muzzle onto the area of the car's back seat. Did it from an angle that would allow me to fire into the front compartment.

Nothing. No one inside

I relaxed momentarily, feeling a rivulet of sweat gain speed as it traced my spine.

Velcroed to the car's dashboard and plugged into the cigarette lighter was the GPS tracker, its color screen the size of a Palm Pilot. The screen remained illuminated, still communicating with satellites overhead, even though the engine was off.

On the screen was a detailed map that showed the Loop Road where it bellied away from Monroe Station. Near Ervin Rouse's curve were two blinking cursors nearly touching.

One cursor was a black X. I realized that it represented the rental Ford. The other cursor, a blinking white arrow, was the Chevy.

I'd been right, at least, about the tracking system.

I took a step closer to the Chevy, disgusted with myself. If only they'd stopped where I'd expected. All I needed was a quick look from the bushes. If they had weapons that fired 9 mm rounds, no problem. If they didn't, that was O.K., too. I could've surprised them, taken their crew down clean. Once they were disarmed, I could have arranged any kind of incriminating scenario I wanted.

Who were the local deputies going to believe? Central American nationals who were probably in the country illegally? Or me, a local and a respected marine biologist?

Not now, though . . . now I had to improvise. I had to get lucky fast.

I looked into the empty car once more. Saw a Spanish edition of the
Miami Herald
scattered on the floor of the back seat. I leaned into the sour odor of cigars to look: Monday edition.

I saw McDonald's wrappers and crumpled cans of a Colombian beer, Aguila, smashed cigarette butts in the ashtray, an open box of Remington 12-gauge shells—I didn't like that.

There was a wrinkled automotive magazine, a small Igloo cooler, clothing on a hanger, a road atlas, and other indications that several men planned to live out of this vehicle for a while. On the floor in front of the passenger seat, I also saw a pair of leather gloves.

That caught my attention.

That's when it came to me. I knew how I could make the plan work.
Maybe
. . . as long as I was willing to surrender to them unarmed. Make myself an easy target for the 12-gauge shotgun I knew they were carrying. A shotgun at the very least.

Put myself at risk for my son?

No indecision there. No thought required.

Pure,
that was the feeling. I'd never experienced an emotion like it in my life. I felt no fear, no hesitation, not even a sense of duty or obligation. I felt resolve. It was something to be done.

Fatherhood.
I was learning about it late, but at least I was learning.

For an instant, Dewey's face flashed in my mind—a baffling lapse in concentration, it seemed . . . until I understood the association.

It reminded me of something: There was reason for risk. I also had reason to be smart, stay alive.

Yeah, I had reason.

I peered over the roof of the car to make certain the men weren't on their way back. Then I tilted my head, listening for other fast cars approaching.

Were there?

Maybe . . . could be there was a car rumbling toward us from the distance.

There was still time, though. Not a lot, I hoped. But some.

I reached, put on the gloves, and used them to smear fingerprints that covered my old semiautomatic pistol.

How long had I owned the thing?

I had to think about that.

Years.

The Sig Sauer had been with me through some tough times. In several distant and dangerous countries.

It had been with me in Masagua during the Revolution, I remembered. I'd used it at least twice in the months before I met Pilar. In fact, I'd looked down the barrel of it at a pompous, self-serving, and diabolical little man named Don Blas Diego.

There was additional irony in that.

Now I'd have to part with it.

I reminded myself that I don't care about firearms. I don't care about
things.
I also reminded myself that I'm not the superstitious type. I told myself that Marion Ford doesn't cling to objects, and he certainly doesn't believe that guns can be good-luck talismans.

I once believed that I was incapable of lying to myself. It's a delusion I no longer maintain.

 

 

THERE
weren't five of them. There were three. Three Latin-looking men, two squat and broad, one tall and angular, their backs to me as they approached the Ford.

As they neared the car, I tailed them.

They thought we might still be in the car. They were moving along the logging trail, hunched down in the classic way that hunters do. The man to the left carried a short-barreled, semiautomatic shotgun. It was the 12-gauge I'd expected after seeing the box of ammunition.

The taller man—white guayabera shirt worn outside expensive-looking sailcloth slacks—led from the middle, and appeared to be unarmed. Wasn't showing anything obvious, anyway. He had dense black hair, professionally styled. The clothing, the hair, the way he carried himself all suggested money. Privilege.

Like the guy with the shotgun, the third man had the look of hired muscle. He carried what, from a distance, looked to be an automatic pistol—a submachine gun.