Tampa Burn (52 page)

But no, there he was, dressed in shorts and a blue chambray shirt very similar to the one I was wearing—both of us stained with blood, it appeared.

It was Lake. It was my son.

I
ran to him, tried to scoop him up in my arms, but realized he had grown too big for that: a lanky, rangy kid with a big jaw, big hands. So I hugged him to me instead, so weak in the knees that I felt my legs might buckle.

He stood very stiff, as if embarrassed, kept saying patiently, “O.K., Doc. That's enough, Doc. It's good to see you, too.”

Then: “What in the hell took you so long? I sent you every damn hint I could think up, and you still took forever. You should have asked Tomlinson if you needed help figuring it out.”

He wasn't smiling, but I found that funny and began to laugh, and he chuckled for a moment, too.

But then, looking at the 50-gallon drum, he grew serious. “Praxcedes is in there, isn't he?”

“That's right.”

“What're you going to do with him?”

I could see now that there was a large, skin-colored bandage on my son's neck and another on his arm where Dr. Santos said he'd been burned.

I said, “I'm not sure,” which was a lie.

I knew precisely what I was going to do—but I had to act quickly. A couple of miles away, I could see the helicopter's running lights now, broad white beam still scanning. It was getting closer.

I said, “It might depend on what the guy did to you. You can tell me. It's O.K. There's nothing you can't tell me.”

My son shrugged, started to speak, but paused to listen to a banging that was now coming from inside the drum. Then a muffled howling, too.

As the pounding continued, he said, “The night he snatched me, he did this.” Lake lifted his arm briefly, as if it were an exhibit. “But it's not bad. That's the only time he hurt me. Until tonight. Tonight, he knocked me out with ether. It made me puke. I guess he planned to kill me, but . . . I don't know what happened. I woke up, and had this—” He touched his neck. “It's a little cut about an inch long. I guess he started, but then stopped. There was blood on me, but he'd already stuck on the bandage. Or someone did.”

He added, “I met a doctor he snatched, too. She's a nice lady, but really scared. So maybe she's the one who took care of me.”

No—it couldn't have been Dr. Santos. She didn't know that Lake was still alive.

For some reason, the monster had spared my son.

It didn't matter. Not to me, it didn't. I was still going to take my revenge. The Gulf of Mexico awaited. But I had to get it done very soon. The Coast Guard helicopter had banked sharply, was now beginning to vector toward the lights of the freighter.

I said, “In that case, unless he gives me some trouble, I'll wait here with him until law enforcement shows up. You and I can talk later. But remember the lady doctor you mentioned? I'm worried about her. Would you mind running up to the fourth deck and checking on her? Maybe bring her down here to the main deck. So we're all together. With some luck, you'll be flying back to the mainland soon.”

The boy didn't budge. He stood there staring at me, then began to shake his head. “You're lying, Doc. I know exactly what you're going to do the minute I'm gone. I've done a ton of research on you. It took me more than a year, but I found out
who
you are. What you did . . . and what you do. You're not going to do it again. Not with me here. I'm not going to let you kill him.”

I was stunned. Was it possible? I said, “
You're
the one who found my files?”

“Yeah, me. And it wasn't easy. It took me fourteen or fifteen solid months to dig up the photos and piece it all together.”

“Then showed it to your mother.” I said this with unintended bitterness.

“No. I would never have done that. Not to either one of you. She . . . snoops through my things. It's the sort of thing she does. She has . . . some chemical problems. But I'm the one who found out that you assassinated my great-uncle, Don Blas Diego. You murdered him. Him and at least two other men who were fighting for my country. Our revolution.”

Lake was walking toward me now as he talked. I realized, for the first time, that he'd found Harris Lilly's Glock 9 mm; that he was holding it near his leg so it wasn't easily seen. That's why he'd seemed so stiff when I hugged him.

Why would he feel it was necessary to hide a gun from me?

I said, “It's not murder if it's sanctioned. It's a
process.
You're studying biology, so you should understand the difference. Diego was a ruthless little psycho. That's the truth. We can talk about it. But later, not now.”

Soon, I'd be able to hear the helicopter.

Lake said, “
Your
truth,” as he continued to approach me. His attitude, his tone, the way he now carried himself, suddenly all seemed confrontational.

I said, “Lake? Why are you carrying that gun?”

I'd begun backing away, trying to maintain some space between us.

He seemed not to hear . . . or he chose to ignore me, because he said, “Praxcedes Lourdes was fighting for the Revolution, too. The man you have sealed in that can. He's crazy. He's a monster. But he was still part of the cause.
That's
why you want me to check on the doctor. It'll give you time to kill him. Because that's what you do, isn't it, Doc? Kill?”

Still backing, I said, “Do you have any idea how many people he's murdered? Look at his face—you'll see his trophies. He abducted you, for God's sake. My
son.
How do you expect me to react?”

His voice growing louder, Lake said, “But he's
insane.
His head was crushed in when he was a kid. He's sick. There's a medication out now that might change his entire behavior. Even if it doesn't, who are you to judge?”

I replied, “Someone
has
to,” then watched, immobile, as my son began to lift the Glock toward my chest. He was letting me see it now, no longer hiding his intent.

“Nope. I'm not going to let you murder him, Doc. I can't. Your days of interfering with our country's politics are done. Same with the assassination bullshit. It's not
necessary.
”

My breath coming in shallow gulps, I held my hands up, palms out, wanting him to stop before I was forced to react—there was no way I could bring myself to hurt him.

But I had to act . . . had to do something. Still backing away, I asked him again: “Laken? What are you doing with that gun?”

I'd decided to dive toward him, to roll-block his legs from beneath him . . . when he suddenly flipped the pistol around in his hand.

The abrupt movement caused me to jump. I stiffened, expecting to hear a round explode.

Instead, he caught the handgun by the barrel, then held it out to me butt-first.

“I found this on the deck up there”—he glanced toward the ship's house—“when I first saw you knock Prax unconscious. I took the bullets out because I don't want you to use it. I don't want you to do that . . .
stuff
anymore. He's sick, Dad. People get sick and do crazy, terrible things. So let him out of the barrel, O.K.?”

Slowly, I reached and took the Glock from his hand, thinking that if it didn't belong to someone else, I'd have thrown it into the sea. Lake was facing me, standing close enough to put his hand on my shoulder, and he gave me a little shake.

“Hey—are you O.K.? You look all pale. Are you hurt? Your head's bleeding.”

I leaned my weight against him, feeling weak-kneed again. “I'm fine. Just tired.”

“Do you promise me that you're not going to kill the guy?”

I remembered saying to Tomlinson something about pathology; that when illness is involved, a person's behavior can't be judged as either moral or immoral.

Did I really believe that?

Sometimes. Maybe.

“
Promise
me, Dad?”

The pounding and howling from inside the drum were louder now, as I replied, “You know what, Lake? You're right. I promise. But . . . do you mind if we leave him locked in there? I really don't want to have to deal with the big bastard again.”

My son looked at me, and then he grinned. “Sure. The guy did the same thing to me last night, you know—stuck me in one of those cans.” He shook his head. “He really is an asshole.”

The noise of the helicopter began to vibrate through the hull of the ship.

ON
an afternoon of dazzling, corn-belt blue in early June, my commercial flight touched down at Quad City International Airport, and I drove my rental car over a bridge that spanned the Mississippi River and carried me into the green, green land of area code 563.

I didn't realize how wide that ancient river is. I looked at it and thought of Mark Twain. I thought of paddle-wheelers and lazy summer afternoons, and of Huck Finn. The river did not, however, catalyze any association with the leggy, sailor-tongued, former international tennis star, Dewey Nye.

But she was here. She was living somewhere nearby.

I would have no trouble finding her, because the lady had kindly provided directions.

Even so, I missed a turn and ended up atop a city hill, parked outside a beautiful old brownstone behemoth, with a sign that said it was Central High School, home of the Blue Devils.

I wondered what experience the people here had with devils, blue or otherwise, in a city as pretty and peaceful as Davenport, Iowa.

As I thought about it, the face of Praxcedes Lourdes slipped into my mind and held me captive for a moment. The night that the Coast Guard boarded
Repatriate
and put the cuffs on him, Praxcedes and I had a brief visual exchange. Not a word was spoken, but the messages were unmistakable.

He glared at me with his wild, pale eyes, then looked to my son, who was standing nearby. He smiled—a leer—and nodded before looking into my eyes again.

That's what he was telling me.

My gaze unwavering, I stared back. As I did, I used a vague index finger to point to him, then at the 50-gallon drum that seemed to still echo with his screams. For emphasis, I patted at my heart.

 

THE
road west followed the river toward Muscatine. It took me through Rockingham, Walnut Grove, and Montpelier, where I slowed and turned right onto Cemetery Road, which was little more than a shaded country lane. Then I took a left onto Wheelands, where corn grew on both sides of the road, so it was a little like driving through a tunnel. I had the windows down, and the car was flooded with the sweet, earthen smell of corn silk and clover.

I'd known that Dewey's maternal family had Midwestern roots. I didn't know that her great-grandmother had died recently and left her what remained of the family farm. It was to the farm that the lady had retreated to get perspective on her personal world; a world that seemed to be unraveling.

As one of the principal causes for the turmoil, I was eager to make amends.

After another mile or so, I found a road marked “Wagon Trail,” and then the red mailbox she'd described. Her property was at the end of a long lane, in a valley of hardwoods and clover. There was a white clapboard house that looked a hundred years old, a broken-down barn, and several unpainted outbuildings that looked older.

I've noticed before that when I see old friends in new or unexpected surroundings, it takes the brain a microsecond to convert then reassemble their facial features from those of a stranger back into the face of the person I know so well. It is in that brief space of time that we see our friends as they really appear, unfiltered by personality quirks or our fondness for them.

As I parked, the door to the back porch swung open, and I saw a lanky, prairie-plain woman come striding out, jeans loose on her hips, plaid shirt bust-heavy, with sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her blond hair was cut boyishly short. She moved as if she were in a hurry to get chores done.

Yes. The short hair had thrown me. Then . . . there she was walking toward me, my old friend, my workout partner and love—the woman jock with the California beach girl face, the smile, the satirical eyes.

“Long time no see, sailor. Welcome to fly-over country.”

By “fly-over,” I took her to mean that part of the U.S. that most only see from a plane.

I said, “They don't know what they're missing. Now that you're here, anyway.”

I was nervous, had a case of dry-mouth, but felt instantly better when she allowed me to hug her close, and then to kiss her lightly on the lips.

I said, “You smell great. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Doc. And I'm so happy about your son.”

“He's an amazing kid. You'll meet him. Soon.”

She scared me a little when she replied, “I'd like that. No matter what happens between you and me. I'd like to meet your son.”

On the phone, she had refused to tell me if she was pregnant. She said she didn't want it to influence discussions about our relationship. But just the possibility of being parents together had a huge effect on me. I wanted to
know.
So now I slid my hand to her flat belly, a brief touch . . . and felt her draw away.

“Put your bag in the guest bedroom. We have a lot to talk about.”

I said, “Yeah, we do.”