Tampa Burn (37 page)

 

 

TOMLINSON
and I both reread the letter several times, the two of us exchanging knowing glances—Lake had given us a hell of a lot of data in just a few sentences—but we kept quiet at first, letting our brains process it.

Finally, Tomlinson said, “What might be helpful is for you to print out a couple of copies of the letter, one for each of us. Make one for Pilar, too. That way, we can read it over a little bit of geography, not tied to one place the whole time. The way my noggin works, the thought process latches onto a kind of rhythm. It seeks its own little beat. So I'm better off looseygoosey.”

As I printed the e-mail, Tomlinson went to the galley. He'd been shirtless, but he returned wearing one of my white lab coats, his bony chest showing.

It was nearly eleven P.M., and the May night was finally cooling.

He was also carrying two cold bottles of beer, each wrapped in a brown paper napkin. As he handed one to me, I said, “When I found this e-mail, it interrupted something you were about to tell me. If you want, go ahead and get it off your chest. Clear the decks so we can concentrate.”

He chugged a third of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ummm . . . I'd sorta like to wait, if it's O.K. with you. From a couple of things the boy wrote, I've already got some theories working. My neurons are firing, man. I'd hate to switch turbines now.”

“Is that true, or are you just saying that because you've got a case of the jitters?”

He smiled, gave me a what-the-hell shrug, and said, “Little of both. You mind?”

I'd already thought it over, considered the options before I brought it up. It was possible that whatever Tomlinson had to tell me might be so injurious that I wouldn't want him involved with the search for Lake. Could be the end of a friendship. I hoped that wasn't the case—it was unlikely—but there was still that potential.

For now, though, I didn't want to risk losing the use of that big brain of his, so I said, “Yeah, let's get to work on the e-mail now. We can talk later.”

Relief.
I could see it in him, and he relaxed a little as I continued, “You've read the thing at least as many times as I have. What do you think Lake's telling us?”

“A bunch, man. I think he's told us approximately where they are, geographically. If I don't miss my guess, I think he's told us close to everything we need to narrow it down.” He finished his beer with another gulp, placed it on the epoxy counter of my lab station, and began to pace, occasionally glancing at the letter. “First off, though, Doc, I've got to make sure of a few things. You have knowledge and expertise in areas I don't, so I'd like you to tell me a couple of things just to make sure we're working from the same premise. How do you rate the boy's English?”

“Better than most kids here in the States. He's had to study it, really work at getting it right.”

“That's what I was hoping you'd say. From his e-mails to me, I've got the same opinion. O.K. . . . so I read this thing assuming that, while there might be a typo or two, Lake wrote exactly what he meant to write. He's probably been thinking about what to say ever since you planted your subliminal message—science is a
language.
And he's being careful. He can't risk giving them a hint he's being cute. He's probably scared shitless. I know I'd be.”

Tomlinson was washing his hands together, his concentration intense, getting into it. “Even so, he pulled it off. What I think is, all four animals he mentions, they have a specific double meaning. A place where coconut palms don't grow? That tells us something. Bright moonlight early in the morning! He's got a clear view to the west, which tells us even more.”

Then Tomlinson added with the kind of enthusiasm that makes him so endearing, “What I'm willing to bet is, we'll know where your boy is within the next half an hour or so. You're the biologist, and your Spanish is a lot better than mine, so I need to ask you a few more questions, or we can check out a few search engines on the Internet for answers. But keep your chin up, amigo. Remember, this is only his first e-mail. If Lake writes us again tomorrow, he'll nail it down.”

I was already worrying that, in trying to give us more detailed information, my son would take additional risks, get found out, and be made to suffer for it.

 

 

TOMLINSON
asked all the right questions. Most I'd already posed to myself.

In reply to his questions, I told him that there was no exact translation for “alligator” in Spanish. Told him that
caimán
was the Spanish word that came closest.
Cocodrilo
was next. And yes, I added, a person who spoke primarily Spanish, when writing in English, might incorrectly translate
caimán
as “alligator,” even though they were two very different species of reptiles.

I also told him that, in my opinion, no one would have noticed anything suspicious about the use of “alligator,” including Lourdes, who I was certain spoke English.

After listening carefully to my answers, my old friend's eyes were glittering when he then said, “I didn't know about the difference between
caimáns
and alligators until years ago, when the two of us were down in Masagua. I mentioned something about one or the other, and you told me there were no alligators in Central America or South America. That was a shocker. I figured there were gators all over the tropical world. Do you think Lake knows that?”

I said, “I'm sure of it. We exchanged e-mails that had to do with saltwater crocs. About how passive the American croc is compared to the ones in Australia and Africa. He knows about gators, too.”

In Tomlinson's expression, I could see it: He
knew.
Understood the significance of that one word.

“So the alligator's a good biological locator. What's the farthest south it ranges? Mexico, maybe?”

I said, “It's an excellent locator. There are many dozens of species of crocodilians worldwide. But there are only two species of alligator. There's a species in China, and then there's our species, the American alligator. You find them in all the Gulf Coast states, Texas, Mississippi, Louisiana, and a few others. But I doubt if they get into Mexico. That far south, I think it would be an anomaly.”

Tomlinson said, “So the question we need to answer is, did Lake use the word ‘alligator' accurately and with intent?”

I replied softly, “I already know the answer to that. I think he used it correctly. I think he knew exactly what he was doing. There are a couple things in his e-mail that've convinced me. Listen—” I held up the paper and read directly from the letter. “
‘I heard an alligator last night, a series of grunts.'
That's important because crocodiles don't bellow or bark. They're quiet animals. So are
caimáns
. Only male gators make the loud grunting sound that you and I've both heard. They make that display during mating season. This is May, Tomlinson. It's mating season.”

I continued, “There's something else that suggests to me that Lake wanted us to be sure we understood he meant alligator, nothing else. The way he signed the thing.
Ciao, Pescado.
Literally, it means ‘Goodbye, fish.' But it's also slang. Chilean slang. It means ‘See you later, alligator.' It's adolescent enough, it wouldn't draw a second look from Lourdes. But very subtly, he's stressing the point. Wherever it is they're hiding, I think Lake actually heard an alligator. He wrote about it because it suited our purpose perfectly.”

Tomlinson said carefully, “Then you're saying they've split. They are . . . they're
not
in Central America anymore. The mountains, when he mentions the region, that's a red herring to please Lourdes, make him think he's leading us off the trail instead of to them. Or maybe Lourdes made him stick it in.”

I rubbed my forehead, thinking hard, going through the data methodically. “I think he's telling us that he and Lourdes have crossed over the border into the United States.”

Whispering, as if he felt a little chill, his eyes slowly widening, Tomlinson said, “Oh my God . . . reddish egrets, and a place where coconut palms don't grow. And the moonlight being so bright just before dawn. I know where they are, man, where they have to be.
Approximately,
I'm saying—”

Tomlinson has a knack for making brilliant, intuitive leaps in what would otherwise be a process of logical thought. Because I didn't want to hear his conclusion now, though, I cut him off, offering a more obvious conclusion: “Yeah, they're on water. Lake's on or near water, with no mountains to the west.”

Trying to make him go slower, I added, “I know, I know, we're probably thinking the same thing. But we need to do more research. I want our proofs to point to a conclusion, not the other way around. It's a hell of a mistake to come up with a theory before you're sure of the data. I don't know the exact habits of the reddish egret, and I'm not even sure what a gray parakeet is. Where they're even found. There's a lot more we need to know before we risk bending facts to fit our conclusion.”

“There are feral parrots and parakeets all over Florida,” Tomlinson said. “I'd bet anything they're here, Lake and the Masked Man. I'll bet Lourdes is running a one-man show, and they're in Florida.”

I had a Google search page on the screen. I typed in
reddish egret northernmost range
as I said, “It's a possibility. Let's see what we come up with,” before I turned to him and added, “Would you mind checking the library, bring my
Peterson's Field Guide to Eastern Birds,
and the one on reptiles? And the Audubon guides, too. I think there's one entirely about Florida.”

Tomlinson's smirk said I was hopelessly backward, but he approved.

When it comes to research, I still prefer books.

STEP
by step, we eliminated all of the Gulf Coast states except for one, because only one met all the requirements detailed in Lake's e-mail: He was being kept on or near a body of freshwater, on a plateau of land or coastline that had an unimpeded view westward. The area had a population of alligators, gray parakeets, reddish egrets, but no coconut palms—which, to me, certainly implied that he was also near saltwater, and on a landmass where coconut palms grew somewhere.

Tomlinson was right.
Florida.

That established, we tried to hammer down a more exact area in the state.

It wasn't easy—but not impossible, either.

Many states have zones of varied flora and fauna—differences often linked to elevation—but few have lines of demarcation as abrupt as those of Florida, a delicate peninsula that is supersensitized to frost, salt, sea wind.

An example: Draw a line across the state. Draw it, roughly, from the northern tip of Key Largo on Florida's east coast to the state's southwestern horn, Cape Sable. The region south of that line includes the tip of the peninsula and all of the Florida Keys. This is the only true tropic zone in the United States. Tropical trees, shrubs, flowers, many mammals, mollusks, crustaceans, corals, insects, and birds otherwise found only in the West Indies, and deep in the Caribbean, flourish here.

Another example of Florida's abrupt demarcations of floral diversity: Draw a second line from Cape Canaveral on the Atlantic Coast to an area south of Sarasota on the Gulf. It will not be a straight line. Because of the Gulf Stream, the line will move inland from Canaveral several dozen miles, then south to Lake Okeechobee and, finally, across the state to approximately fifteen miles or so south of Sarasota. All land and water below that line is considered a subtropical zone. As in the Florida Keys, many tropical plants, animals, birds, and insects thrive here, including key limes, papaya, mangoes, gumbo limbos—and the coconut palm, which is not considered an indigenous plant, but is emblematic of the tropics.

Twenty miles south of Sarasota, coconut palms grow beautifully—tall with slender dinosaur necks, heavy fronds feathering down, almost always leaning toward the strongest intersectings of sun and water. A few miles north of Sarasota, however, coconut palms seldom survive for long, if they grow at all.

Tampa seems to be the final transitional. The weather there is superb, but you don't find mature coconut palms in Tampa.

The reddish egret is equally emblematic of the American tropics. It is an uncommon, medium-sized wading bird that looks a lot like its relative, the little blue heron. It's easy to identify on the flats, however, because of its bizarre feeding techniques. Most herons stand motionless, like snipers, or stalk their prey with exaggerated slow giraffe-steps.

Not the reddish egret. It runs and lurches with wings held high, like some drunken kung fu expert, jabbing at fish and shrimp with its stiletto beak.

I wondered if that's how Lake had identified the bird he saw.
If
he saw a reddish. Could be he just invented the sighting. Saw it in a book and realized that it was a far more exacting locator than the American alligator.

From the little I'd seen and heard, Prax Lourdes didn't strike me as the Audubon Society type. He'd be oblivious of wildlife around him. Lake could probably make up any wildlife sighting and get away with it.

Tomlinson seemed pleased for both of us that the Internet was not nearly as informative as my excellent little library. I felt a sharp adrenal charge when I opened my
Peterson's Field Guide
to the range map for the reddish egret, illustration 91, and saw that the bird lived and bred almost exclusively along the southwest coast of Florida.

Once again, Tampa was the final transitional. With rare, rare exceptions, the reddish egret did not venture north of there.