He’d written:
Forgive the bad English of mine, but my name is Mary Perez, and I am a 19-year-old female film student at the University of Nicaragua. I read about your brilliant work in People magazine, Edition Español. I find your work fascinating because my face was badly burned as a child when soldiers attacked our village during the Revolution . . .
After giving details about that, using stuff he knew—like the burn center in Managua—he’d continued:
As a film student, I’m working on a script, and you’re one of the few in the world who can help me. In my script, your character (yes, you are in my film!) must perform a complete facial transplant, but under Third World or even jungle conditions. There’s been a plane crash. The donor is still alive, his face is perfect, but he has no hope. The patient’s face has been burned beyond recognition. I want to make this film as accurate as possible because, as a burn victim, I want the world to know . . .
The first couple of replies came from the woman’s assistant, Prax could tell by the wording. But then he uploaded and sent a photo that he’d found on the Internet of some teenage Latina crispy critter whose face had been scorched by napalm.
That did it. Prax started getting personal attention from “Dr. Valerie,” as she signed her e-mails. Sometimes, she wrote to him daily.
The e-mail he opened now began,
My Dear Mary,
I have very bad news for you, and it’s important that you take action immediately. I have done some checking and have found out that your physician, Dr. Fernando Delgado, is not qualified to do your surgery, or to give you advice about the screenplay you are writing. The Mexican Medical Board revoked his license several years ago because of his terrible mortality record as a plastic surgeon . . .
Prax deleted the letter, thinking, No shit.
Two days later, responding to a note he’d written earlier, Dr. Santos replied:
Dear Mary,
I don’t doubt that you are who you say you are, but I simply cannot share personal information with patients (yes, I consider you my patient now, dear) such as where I live, or about my husband and family. I will tell you, however, that I live close enough to Tampa General Hospital that I jog to and from work every day. I keep dress-up clothes and heels in the physicians’ locker room just in case!
Lourdes found that useful.
Then, the next evening, when he was pissed off at Pilar Fuentes and her new asshole pals, and whoever the hell it was following them in the black Chevy, he received a very valuable e-mail from the nice doctor lady:
Another example that you must leave Fernando Delgado’s care immediately is that he has given you bad information about medication that is out of date by a decade!
Yes, transplant patients take medications each day to prevent organ rejection that are called “immunosuppressants.” They help suppress the immune system to prevent or reverse rejection. But not the drugs you were told. All wrong, young lady!
Today, cyclosporine is one of the most commonly used antirejection drugs, and it’s usually combined with prednisone. Cyclosporine is a very potent immunosuppressant. Most of our transplant patients prefer the capsule, but the odor, however, leaves something to be desired!
There are also some new, recently approved immunosuppressants that I prefer and use exclusively on my patients . . .
A list of medicines followed. All sophisticated stuff that was new to him.
Shit!
How in the hell was he going to put his hands on all those drugs?
Lourdes had brought the boy into the trailer with him. He’d done that the last couple of nights, which he didn’t mind so much. It gave him somebody to talk to; take his mind off it when the headaches and the facial pain came.
The last few years, the facial pain had been as bad or worse than the pounding inside his head. When the headaches came shooting up his spine, the first jolt now seemed to bathe his face in acid. Fucking miserable. So talking took his mind off it.
Otherwise, all the kid did was read. About the only time he opened his mouth was to ask for more books, or to do research on the Internet—which Prax allowed, as long as he was right there to keep an eye on the little brat.
The kid was reading now, sitting at a chair in the corner. Some book about bugs or snakes or some damn thing.
Prax watched him for a second before he said, “Have you ever heard of drugs called cyclosporine or prednisone? I’ve never heard of the fuckin’ stuff.”
The kid looked up from his book and thought about it for a moment before he said, “Cyclosporine, no, but prednisone, yeah. I remember reading about it because the body produces its own form of prednisone, a chemical called cortisol.”
“Really?”
“Um-huh. I’ve been reading a lot about medicine lately, because . . . well, a friend of mine has some emotional problems. There are so many new drugs coming out that can help—almost always from the United States—it’s kind of interesting. The chemistry of it, I mean. I think I’m going to be a doctor.”
Prax said, “No shit? A fuckin’ doctor.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
The kid was like that. A smart-ass, but smart.
Maybe the brat would have some ideas on how to get his hands on those brand-new drugs. . . .
SEVENTEEN
EVEN though I seemed to be moving in slow motion, the satellite phone was still ringing when I got the car door open.
The phone was made by Motorola, cased in black plastic, the size and shape of a standard cell phone, but it had an oversized antenna and a flat face with no keypad. There was an On-Off button, a menu key, and a couple of other buttons. Stupidly, I hadn’t bothered to familiarize myself with the thing.
It rang once more, green face plate flashing, as I held it beneath the car’s dome light, trying to figure out how to answer.
Damn it, how’s this work?
Finally, I pressed the largest button and slammed the phone to my ear. “Hello. Hello?”
There was silence on the other end. Silence . . . but it was an inhabited silence. Someone was listening.
After a few seconds, I realized that the silence may have been catalyzed by surprise—because the caller was expecting Pilar to answer. Quickly I said in Spanish, “My name’s Ford. I’m the boy’s father. Laken’s father. I’m all alone, no police. The mother’s . . . indisposed right now.”
More silence.
“Hello! Talk to me. Let me talk to my son.”
Then I heard click.
I kept talking until I was certain they’d disconnected. Then I hit the Off key.
Shit.
I was aware that Janet was watching me from the house. Because I didn’t want to have to explain, I waved goodbye, got in the car, and drove slowly back toward the beach, the satellite phone in my lap.
Call back, give me another chance. Ring, damn you, ring.
The phone still wasn’t taking my telepathic commands.
It was nearly one A.M., but I was so hyped-up, I knew there was no chance of sleep. Besides, there were still a few proactive steps to take, I decided.
The reasonable thing to do now, and what we should do, was check Pilar’s e-mail to see if the kidnappers had supplemented their call with another written message. Trouble was, Pilar—and her password—were in Miami.
I was justified in asking her for it. No question about that. She and Tomlinson had to be in the room by this late hour, so I grabbed the cell phone, dialed the Radisson.
No answer.
I was furious.
I redialed the hotel immediately and asked the clerk, “Are you sure they haven’t checked out?”
He used a practiced, polite and frosty tone that showed disdain, but from a safe distance. “Oh yes, sir, I’m positive, sir.”
“Then make sure they get my message the instant they get in.”
“Yes sir!”
As I drove, I rehearsed some of the bitter, cutting things I would say to my old pal and to the mother of the boy
who, for all we knew, was fighting for his life at this very instant. I indulged in that ugly rehearsal for several miles before I recognized the kind of emotional spiral I was in. Negative cycling is as irrational as Pollyanna optimism.
I stopped and made myself review. Tomlinson is a flake and a womanizer, but he is also brilliant, decent, and one of the kindest people I know. Pilar and I had issues, but I had no reason to doubt her devotion as a parent. Quite the opposite. Neither of them would put their own pleasure ahead of our son’s well-being. If they weren’t in their hotel room, or weren’t answering the phone, there was almost certain to be a good reason.
Now . . . what the hell that reason was, I couldn’t imagine. But I decided that I should, at the very least, give them a chance to explain before I passed judgment.
So back off, Ford. Settle down.
I was hyped, all right. Juiced on a day of adrenal overload. It was O.K. to stay aggressive, but I also needed to stay constructive.
I took it easy through the curves south of ’Tween Waters, then slowed to a crawl at Blind Pass Bridge.
To my right, the moon was enormous over the Gulf of Mexico. It was a gaseous sphere, meteor scars showing, sitting on a rim of atmosphere that buffered Captiva Island from the emptiness of outer space. Beyond the bridge, white surf rolled out of a far horizon that touched Yucatan and the jungles of Central America.
I stared, eyes soft-focused, thinking that only water separated me from a shore where someone held my son prisoner. Islands may be isolated by water, but they also seem more intimately linked to a wider world because of the uninterrupted plane. Lake seemed close. Just over there. Just beyond the moon.
I’m coming. I’ll find you.
I touched my foot to the accelerator.
As I drove, I concentrated on how to take the next necessary step: check Pilar’s e-mail. Lake’s well-being was too important to let it wait until morning. The kidnappers might want us in Miami the next afternoon, and we wouldn’t know about it until too late. But how could I get the woman’s password at one A.M. without talking to her?
I knew a way. Maybe.
I had a friend I could call. A man by the name of Bernie Yeager. He could help—if he was home, and if he was agreeable. An elite and distinguished member of the U.S. electronic warfare and intelligence community, Bernie didn’t qualify as law enforcement. Not by my definition, anyway.
Under my agreement with Pilar, contacting Bernie was permissible.
On the way back to Dinkin’s Bay, there was someone else I decided to telephone: my cousin, Ransom Gatrell.
Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t have bothered her so late. But Ransom’s a night owl—she’s always up at odd hours—plus, my sensitivity to the power of blood linkage had been heightened.
Her second cousin, Lake, had been kidnapped. Aside from my son, she is my only living relative, and so I dialed her number.
Ransom was born and raised on Cat Island, one of the remote cays in the Bahamas. She works on Sanibel now, lives just across the bay from me, but her Bahamian accent remains just as strong as her Cat Island attitude.
When I told her what had happened, I heard her say with great emotion, “Aw, me brudder, I knowed I wuz piddlin’ ’bout diz hour far a reezin, mon. I comin’ to yer hose jus’ as fas’ daht li’l boot kin kirry me sweeet broon awss. ’N I breengin’ a jar o ’soop, mon. Daht ain’ no beeg dill.”
What she’d told me was, she was going to get in her boat and meet me at my house, and that she was bringing along a jar of soup that she’d made.
I was smiling mildly when I punched off, but then I stopped smiling.
The satellite phone was warbling again.
THIS time, when I answered, there was a voice that I recognized on the other end. It was Masked Man, the voice from the video. It was Praxcedes Lourdes, my son’s abductor. It was the one Pilar called “monster,” the man who burned men.
In Spanish, Lourdes said, “We don’t want to kill this beautiful brat of yours, but our people in Florida tell us you’re not cooperating. Why aren’t you cooperating?”
I started to say, “We are cooperating. The car following us today wasn’t police. They were—”
But Lourdes interrupted, screaming, “Shut up! You’re giving me a fucking migraine!” followed by a string of ranting profanities spoken in such a tone of agony that it sounded as if he really might have been in pain.
I thought to myself, The man’s insane.
After a short, gathering pause, when he’d regained some control, he continued, “Cooperating? What are you, some kind of moron? The woman’s supposed to answer our e-mails immediately. We sent one three hours ago and still haven’t heard back. The bitch is supposed to be alone.”
I said, “I’m the boy’s father. I’m Laken’s father. We’ve got the money. All we want is the boy—”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth and listen!” His voice had that anguished quality again. “We want more than cash, now. We’re fighting a war. We need medical supplies. Some of the new breakthrough drugs not easy to get. One that’s experimental—for our wounded. The brat tells me you’re some kind of big-shot scientist. He says you know all about medicine, and can do just about any fucking thing. So that’s your new job, finding the drugs and delivering them with the money.”
Lourdes had been told I was a scientist? It was the first indication that Lake might still be alive. I wanted more than just an indicator, though. I wanted to find a way to apply at least some light leverage; was hesitant to risk it, but knew I had to try.
Medical supplies. Something about the way he said it suggested that he had a personal interest. They seemed important to him. Maybe that’s why Lake had told him “scientist.” He’d hedged intentionally. Made me sound more important than I was—a finesse on Lake’s part that gave me a fine surge of optimism. My son was working the guy instinctively, helping to set him up for me. Why Lourdes believed I had connections in the medical field didn’t matter. As long as he thought I could be useful, it gave me a tiny opening.
I began, “I’m not a physician. I’ve got access to medicines; prescription stuff. Experimental drugs, though, could take some time. You need to understand that. You don’t just go to the store and place an order.”
“You have until Sunday. No later.”
“I have to know what you need, and the quantities. First, though, let me talk to the boy. That’s not negotiable. I’m giving your people drugs and cash? Let me hear his voice. After that, I’ll do what you say—but I want daily e-mails so we know you’re keeping him alive.”
“You want? Why the fuck should we care what you want? Maybe we’ll just kill him now, big shot.”
I had to force the words out of my mouth: “Because then you wouldn’t have any leverage. Personally—well, the kid and I aren’t that close. He’s costing me a lot of money. Now you want drugs, experimental medicine, which, frankly, I can’t get legally. Even trying to get experimental drugs could put my career in jeopardy. I want to be sure I’m getting something in return.”
I had heard his coughing, bully’s laughter on the video. I heard it again now. “Hooh, a tough guy, huh! O.K. . . . O.K. Go ahead and talk to your brat, tough guy. But I want those fucking drugs!”
A few moments later, I heard my son say, “Doc? Dad?” and then add in a rush, “Doc, you need to do what he says. His friends will hurt Mother. They have someone watching her all the time. Please do what he says.”
Lake sounded hoarse, frail. I found it heartbreaking that he was more concerned for Pilar than for himself. Because I knew I had only seconds to talk to him, and because I suspected Lourdes or someone else was listening in, I replied, “I’ll follow their orders, you do the same. They’re going to let you send me e-mails. Don’t be tricky. Write about the usual stuff: baseball, birds, plants. Just so I know it’s you. Things just the two of us know about. Science. Understand?”
On one level, I meant exactly what I said. On a more subtle, second level, I was try
ing to tell him there might be a way for us to pass information secretly.
Science is its own language. We’d written that back and forth often enough.
Did he understand?
He didn’t seem to. Didn’t even seem to hear me, because after a beat or two of silence, he replied, “Mother needs to be protected—”
He didn’t finish. Lourdes’ loud voice cut him off, saying, “Happy, asshole? Check your e-mail tonight. You better get what I want.”
There was a click, and they were gone.
MY cousin, Ransom, was already in the galley of my little house, heating a pot of soup on the propane stove when I walked in.
“Brother, my brother,” she said, holding her arms out to me, “I be worried about you so much.”
I hugged her tight, lifting her so that her toes pointed to the wooden floor, letting her know how much I appreciated her boating over to keep me company.
“He’s alive!” I told her, delighted, and then explained why I was certain.
“We got to find my nephew,” she said when I’d finished. Her tone was solemn. “What those fools down there in the jungle don’t be suspectin’ is, you got yourself a sister who knows the words. Who’s got the power. I can throw a spell on them Latino trash that’ll ruin ’em from here. Fact, that’s jes what I’m gonna do, my brother. Throw me a spell on them bad boys.”
I smiled, stood away, then kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks, sis. You do that.”
As Tucker Gatrell’s daughter, Ransom’s not my real sister, of course. But because she has introduced herself that way ever since arriving on Sanibel—“How you doin’, mon, I’m Doc’s sistah!”—many have come to accept it as fact, and so I no longer correct them, or her.
Tampa Burn Page 21
