Tampa Burn (5 page)

Which generated in me a nagging guilt. Guilt because I was now in a full-time relationship with a great lady by the name of Dewey Nye. More than just a relationship, really. It's the closest I've come to what Tomlinson calls “instinctual testicular disobedience.”

By that, he means domestication, plus sexual exclusivity—a combination he has successfully avoided over the years.

Dewey and I'd been splitting our nights between my stilt house and her home on Captiva Island—a sacrifice on her part. I have an outdoor shower and a propane cooking stove. In her designer home, she has a bathtub the size of a swimming pool and a gourmet kitchen.

Even so, I think she was enjoying the change. I was, too—a surprise to many, including me. But true.

Every morning, I'd make breakfast before sending her off to her new job teaching golf and tennis at South Seas Plantation, a classy Captiva resort. In the afternoons, we'd work out, then take turns cooking dinner. We'd even discussed opening a joint bank account to pay household expenses.

Something else that I had accepted with surprising calm: The lady had hinted more than once that she'd give marriage serious consideration if asked, because she wanted to start a family before she hit her late thirties.

“If I can just get enough beer into a certain thick-head, half-blind nerd to get him to pop the question,” she once whispered in my ear.

So, yes. I was in more than just a relationship. I had a partner and a mate. A spectacular one, at that. Infidelity has as much to do with the brain as the body, so my guilt was not misplaced.

Tomlinson has pointed out on more than one occasion that I maintain such tight control over my emotions that it has stunted me spiritually—not that I much care about spirituality.

I knew now, though, how wrong he was. When it came to Pilar, I seemed to have no control at all.

“MARION.
You look good. Healthy. But you've lost weight. Too much.”

I was walking toward her as she spoke, arms outstretched, but she surprised me by giving me the briefest of hugs and pulling away. Then she seemed to study me for a moment before adding, “It's been so long since I've seen you, I realize that maybe I'd always imagined it. Our son. That I could see him so clearly in your face.”

There may have been a touch of nostalgia in her voice. But there also seemed to be an undertone of cool reserve. Or was I imagining it?

Even so, I didn't trust myself to speak. I felt too big and clumsy and inarticulate to have someone like her even briefly in my arms. Like I might stumble, fall, and break one of her ribs or something.

I said, “I've been working out a lot. Swimming and running,” and realized, as I spoke, what a stupid, inane thing to say after so much time apart.

I tried to rally. “You remember Tomlinson? He's the friend who was with me in Central America when I got the concussion.”

Idiotic. Of course she remembered. They'd not only spent a couple of days together, they'd been here the last twenty minutes talking while I showered.

Pilar seemed not to notice what a bumbling fool I'd become. She stepped farther away from me, as if requiring distance, her eyes a liquid sheen; eyes that seemed aloof and wise and penetrating.

Her clothing was crisp; her hammered silver bracelet and jade necklace simple, elegant. She wore beige slacks and a white blouse. The starched collar provided a classic pedestal for her classic face. Pilar's is the face of the pure Indio, though she is not pure Indian. It is the face of royalty you see carved into the pyramid walls and stone stelae of Mexico, Guatemala, and Peru. High cheeks, black eyes, and black Mayan hair. But her hair was cut and styled so that she looked like a successful, modern business executive. Or a high-level politician—which she'd once been.

In the time I knew her, she'd always worn her combed hair long. It had added a softness to her appearance that wasn't now evident.

Except for some additional wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, though, and delicate sun lines on her forehead, she hadn't otherwise changed. She stood there looking up into my face, not smiling. She seemed a stranger. A person whom I'd once known, but no longer knew.

“Remember when I used to call you Señor Feo? Mister Ugly. That was before him.”

I said, “Before Lake.”

Meaning our son, Marino Laken Fuentes. It was a name that, like the boy's mother, had both Spanish and Mayan roots.

“I'm wondering if he's grown at all to look like you. A little, perhaps, but not a lot. The eyes, maybe. The jaw?” She seemed to be thinking about it, comparing.

“So now you think I'm handsome, I suppose.” I grinned, hoping to make her laugh.

She didn't.

“He's such a fine young man. There's nothing ugly in goodness, and he's a good person. Kind and decent. The same qualities I saw in you when we first met.”

I wondered if she'd switched tense accidentally, or if it was because she no longer believed that I possessed those qualities.

I asked, “Is he with you? I'd love to see him.”

She shook her head quickly and then, for no apparent reason, rushed to me on tiptoes and squeezed my arm briefly. It was spontaneous, emotional—an involuntary action linked to the boy we'd made together. The temptation was to hold her there, to kiss her, and then carry her off to some private place.

I might have tried, but just as quickly, she backed away and put her face in her hands. It took me a moment to realize that she was crying.

Tomlinson cleared his throat—a rare moment of awkwardness for a man who is at home in the most bizarre situations— and said, “Wish I could stick around, but I've got to get back to my . . . to my gardening.”

Staring dumbly at Pilar—I've never known how to behave when a woman begins to cry—I asked him, “Gardening? What're you talking about? You live on a sailboat, for God's sake.”

His expression told me,
I'm just trying to help,
which I should have realized.

As I finally moved to put my hands on Pilar's shoulders, I listened to him use words to blanket the sound of her crying. He was using them to provide her with a private space. “Hey, man, I've been growing chili peppers for years, you know that. Plus, I've been planting some very special flora on islands near here. The magic herb, if you
must
know, though it's always been my impression mum's the word, far as you're concerned.”

Seeming to speak to Pilar, he added, “I've been target-farming deserted islands, the few with enough high ground to cultivate. Small Indian shell middens are the best. They seem to add a spiritual kick to my special crop.”

Pilar had allowed me to hold her for a moment, but now she disentangled herself, crossed the room, and found a tissue in her purse. “I'm sorry. It's not like me to lose control like that. Marion will tell you.”

Not quite true. I'd seen her explode into rages a couple of times. Not often, but her temper could get out of control. And in bed, she had zero control—happily. Her abandon was unforgettable. That was especially true when she'd been through situations of intense stress. Get a couple of glasses of wine in Pilar, and sex became a vent without taboo. With some women, sex is more of a physical event than a coupling. Pilar was one of those.

Tomlinson replied, “Doc can tell you just as honestly that I am almost never in control. So rest easy. You're among friends.”

That earned a tiny smile. “You really weren't talking about hot peppers, were you?
Ajís,
that's what they're called in my language.”

Tomlinson nodded at her perceptiveness. “No, my dear, I am not talking about peppers. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. One of the nights we were together in Central America, the night Doc was feverish, still unconscious. Didn't we—?” He hesitated, unsure if he should continue.

Pilar wasn't uncomfortable with the subject. “Yes. Yes, we did. It was very relaxing, and we laughed.”

Tomlinson smiled, tugging at his hair, his expression saying,
I thought so.
“If you're still interested, I have plenty of flora to share. Our friend here does not partake.”

I was surprised, even shocked, when she replied, “I know. In the years I knew him, I never even offered.”

He said, “You gotta love the big palooka anyway, though, huh?” The two of them simpatico, him standing shirtless at my galley stove in his diaper-style sarong, stork legs sticking out, his skeletal frame visible beneath black sailor's skin, muscle and tendons traced with veins, one shock of samurai hair arcing unicornlike from the top of his head.

“The moment we started talking,” he continued, “I knew that, spiritually, you were an interesting soul. You got lots of stuff going on inside there, don't you, my dear lady?”

He eyed her intensely for a moment. I found his tone and manner unusual when he added, “Some people live at the top of a whole pyramid of
shishos.
I had an instant . . .
awareness
of who you are, what you are. Same the first time we met in Masagua. You've got a complicated chemistry going on. You're what we in the mojo business call a
complicated
spirit. Still evolving.”

She said slowly, “I have the same strong feeling about you, Tomlinson.”

I didn't interpret what he said as much of a compliment. Even so, he placed his hands together palm-to-palm in front of his face, and bowed slightly at the waist.

Her expression focused, she turned to me. “Marion, do you trust this man?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. It's important.”

“I've known him for a long time. I trust him with anything but my female friends. When he's sober, anyway.”

“I can tell you're joking.”

I was joking. Kind of.

I listened to her say, “I
like
him. There's a quality about him. I get a sense of goodness and strength. I remember how kind he was to you when you were in the jungle, so badly injured.”

Turning her attention once again to Tomlinson, she added, “I made a decision while we were talking. It surprised me. I didn't expect it to happen. I came here to tell Marion something important. I need his help. Perhaps you can help, too.”

Tomlinson said, “I'm trying to imagine how any man on earth could refuse to do anything you asked. Seriously—has anyone ever tried?”

Again this was said with an odd, insightful tone.

Pilar didn't smile when she answered, “You may regret agreeing before you've heard what it is I'm asking. Let me tell you about it first. Then decide.”

Tomlinson said, “O.K., I'll listen. But I already know what my answer's going to be.”

PILAR
said, “They've taken our son, Marion. He's been kidnapped.”

Her words seemed to bang around, echoing inside my auditory canal. I had to wait for a moment until my brain translated the noise.

“
Kidnapped.
When?”

“Five days ago. Slightly less.”

“
Who?
Who did it?'

“Balserio.”

As Tomlinson said, “Oh God,” I banged my fist on my thigh and said, “Why didn't you tell me right away? On the phone.”

“I'll explain why. Now's not the time to second-guess my decisions. Please.”

I said, “Wherever he is, we'll find him. Don't worry.
I'll
find him.” My head snapped around. “Do you think they hurt him? Do you have any information at all?”

I watched her battle to hold the tears in check. “That's the worst. I think they may
have
hurt him, but I don't know how badly. Laken is so strong-willed. In his room, there was a struggle. Some furniture was broken. Some glass. Plus”—she paused for another moment—“plus, when you hear about the man who took him. Who did the kidnapping. He's . . . he's horrible. Sick. A monster. Everyone in Masagua is afraid of him.”

When I began to press for details—Who was the man? Had federal investigators been assigned to the case?—she shushed me with a warning finger. “I'll explain it all. We don't have enough time to waste it by rushing.”

From her reaction, though, I got the strong impression that it disturbed her to linger on the subject of Lake's abductor. It scared me, her reaction. Gave me a chill.

The three of us were outside, sitting in cane-backed bar stools on the northeastern side of my porch. It's the portion of porch that hangs over my shark pen and looks out over the bay.

On the teak table between Pilar and myself were Ball jars filled with iced tea. Tomlinson held a tumbler of dark Guyana rum cloaked in his big bony hands, as if trying to warm it. Unseen below us, beneath dark water, two bull sharks and a smaller, 70-pound hammerhead shark circled. Like ocean currents, sharks are always moving.