Tampa Burn

by Randy Wayne White

  Prax returned to his van, drove to the little business district, and waited. At 4:15 P.M., Dr. Valerie jogged by; waved to people eating at outdoor tables, a big smile on her pretty face. Seemed to know everyone.

  Yeah, she was tiny. A little miniature woman who photographed like a full-sized fashion model.

  He gave it a couple of minutes, then followed her down Magnolia Street to a pale yellow three-story mansion, with columns and fountains and a black wrought-iron fence. He watched her stop, still jogging in place, and punch in some kind of code before opening the gate. It took a while.

  Hillsborough Bay was right across the quiet street, with a cement seawall to knock down waves if it was blowing.

  Micki, the pushy freighter captain bitch, had called him earlier that day and told him she and her boat would be back in Tampa Bay tomorrow, Friday, and would probably return to Nicaragua very early Saturday morning, or during the day on Sunday.

  “But stay on your toes,” she’d added. “If they get us loaded and on the transit schedule, we could be casting off earlier. And for me to get your weirdo special cargo aboard’s gonna take us a little time. So have everything all set.”

  They’d already discussed it. The fat captain knew what he was planning to bring—not who, but what—and how to make it work.

  She would have two empty 50-gallon drums waiting.

  But the jump ahead in schedule had made him feel tense, rushed.

  Not now.

  Prax could picture his Boston Whaler tied to the seawall in the darkness next to the doctor’s house, and the miniature surgeon having to stop to punch in a code at the gate.

  He thought, Perfect.

  LATER that afternoon, Lourdes rushed back to the trailer park, where he put duct tape, a big pillowcase, and a rope into the back of the van. He also loaded a fresh gas canister into a mini-blowtorch. He’d bought the thing at Sears. It wasn’t much bigger than his hand.

  There was something else that he hid in the glove box: a small bottle of ether, wrapped in a hand towel.

  After that, he brought the kid inside the trailer with him again. The skin of his cheeks was already on fire, and he could feel the first shock wave of pressure that preceded his headaches.

  If Dr. Valerie had the operating room scheduled for eight P.M., there was no telling how late she’d get out. Even so, he wasn’t going to risk screwing this up. He wanted to be right there in the boat waiting outside her house, no matter how early or late she was.

  Even so, he still had time for a couple of drinks and to lie down on the couch. The combination sometimes made the pain disappear faster.

  As he walked toward the living room, the kid said to him, “Let me get on the computer, there’s something I’ve been thinking about. Something I want to show you. I found it yesterday, but you didn’t give me time to follow up.”

  Prax screamed at him, “Fuck off! It’s getting so you’re starting to give the fucking orders around here, which is bullshit!”

  But then Prax remembered that he had to let the kid on the Internet. He’d told the kid’s stubborn asshole father that he’d get a personal e-mail from the boy. So, a short time later he watched Laken sign online.

  He felt like slapping the boy out of his seat. The smug little prick always seemed to get his way.

  After a few minutes squinting at the monitor and typing fast, the kid stood and said, “Have a look at this.”

  His head pounding, his skin screaming, Prax sat and read:

  Trigeminal neuralgia, often associated with burn scarring, is among the most terrible of chronic pain conditions. The trigeminal nerve is the fifth cranial nerve, and has three branches that are designated as 5-1, 5-2, and 5-3. This nerve supplies sensation to the face.

  Neurogenic pain is awful, of a burning quality, and incapacitating. It is also sometimes associated with cluster headaches. Medications may lessen attacks, but seldom work.

  The article then went into specific detail.

  When Prax had read it through twice, he leaned back and said, “Shit, I think that’s exactly what I got. I had a doctor in Masagua, a plastic fucking surgeon he called himself, and he couldna figured it out in a hundred years. The stupid damn quack!”

  The man tended to get louder and more animated as his pain increased.

  Now he slapped at the screen. “But what fucking good does it do me to know? It says right here medications don’t work. As if I haven’t tried every fucking pill on earth! Why’d you even bother me with this bullshit?”

  The more furious he became, the calmer the boy always seemed to get. He was very calm now as he said, “That’s where you might be wrong. There’s a whole new class of drugs, they haven’t been out long. They were developed as anticonvulsion medications, but doctors are finding all kinds of ancillary benefits. They’re finding out that the medicine changes the chemistry of the brain in some way—it’s hard to explain—but these new meds can stop chronic pain. Back pain, pain from scars, that sort of thing.”

  Christ, now the smug little son-of-a-bitch was talking down to him, like he was stupid.

  “I’ve got a fuckin’ brain, asswipe! If you can understand how a pill works, I sure as shit can understand how it works. For all I know, you’re making this bullshit up.”

  The red color had flooded in behind Lourdes’ eyes, and he was thinking: If the little prick talks back to me one more time, I’ll drag him down to the river and set his shirt on fire.

  Still very calm, the kid said, “I’m not making it up. This new drug is also helping people who have severe emotional problems—chemical imbalances in the brain. I have a friend who has some problems like that. I’m trying to get her to try them. I think you ought to give it a try, too.”

  With the kid looking over his shoulder, Prax found information on the Internet about the new class of drugs. He spent half an hour reading.

  Son-of-a-bitch if the brat wasn’t right!

  After that, Prax let the kid write the e-mail to his father. But he read it carefully several times to make certain the smug little bastard didn’t sneak in any clues about where they were.

  When he was convinced that he hadn’t, Prax sat at the desk and sent the kid’s e-mail to Nicaragua so it could be forwarded.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE sender’s address was the familiar random mix of letters and numbers at Nicarado.org. But on the subject line, I read “Message from Chamaeleo.”

  I opened the e-mail, and with Tomlinson leaning eagerly over my shoulder, we read a note written by my son in English:

  Hi Doc,

  They’re letting me write and not giving me much time, but at least it’s allowed to be personal. I bet you and Mr. Tomlinson are getting ready for baseball season, huh? I sure like that Wilson catcher’s mitt. Why do you think the White Sox ever traded Moe Berg to the Indians?

  I’ve been eating O.K., and been allowed to continue some of my science studies. I think I heard an alligator last night, a series of grunts, and I’ve definitely seen reddish egrets feeding on the mature tadpole. I also found a gray parakeet nest nearby, even though they prefer coconut palms. But, like lots of places in the mountains of Central America, there don’t seem to be any coconut palms. The moon was so bright before sunrise this morning, I could see birds roosting.

  Oh, there’s another medicine you need to get. It’s Neurontin, capsules in the highest dosage. It’s important. That’s all for now. Today’s front-page headline in the Latin American edition of the Miami Herald was about the Chinese increasing their control on the Panama Canal.

  Caio, Pescado,

  Lake

  Excited, I jumped up and turned away from the computer to see that Tomlinson was beaming, as excited as I was. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him as I said, “Unbelievable. Do you realize the importance of the things he’s saying? Jesus, what a boy!”

  Tomlinson was talking at the same time, jumping up and down as if I were bouncing him. “Moe Berg, man! That’s the farthest kind of far-out. I
told him about the dude, man. And now he’s using it. The kid’s a blessed genius.”

  I said, “On the satellite phone and in my e-mail, I dropped a couple of hints, and he picked right up on what I was asking him to do. He’s smuggling information to us. He’s trying to tell us where he is through the biological references. That’s the only interpretation I can . . . .”

  I had begun to sit back at the computer to reread the letter, but then I paused, thinking about it, suddenly worried. “Hey, I just thought of something. What are the chances, do you think, that Lourdes—anybody associated with him—would know who Moe Berg is? That they’d figure it out? Lake would be in even more danger than he is now.”

  Tomlinson created a circle with thumb and forefinger. “Zero. Hardly anyone in the States even knows who the man was. Central America, it’s got to be zilch.”

  Moe Berg isn’t well known, I couldn’t argue that. He’d never been a great baseball player, was remembered by only a few—but he was one of the baseball greats of the twentieth century.

  Intellectually, Berg had been massively gifted. Athletically, he had not. About Berg, sportswriters of the time said that the oddball catcher could speak seven languages, but couldn’t hit in any of them, which was an exaggeration, but close. He’d played more than a dozen years in the major leagues, mostly as a benchwarmer and bullpen specialist, yet somehow he’d managed to be chosen for the 1934 All-Star team, and he’d toured Japan with Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and all the other greats.

  It wasn’t until decades later that the truth had come out. The .243 lifetime hitter hadn’t made the All-Star team because of his skills on the field. He’d made it for the same reason he’d been sent to pre-World War II Germany, and then into Latin America on “goodwill” baseball missions. The catcher was a spy for the OSS.

  In Tokyo, when he hadn’t been in the bullpen, he’d been out roaming the city, speaking Japanese like a native and using a movie camera to take film of Tokyo Harbor, munitions factories, and the city skyline that would later be invaluable to American bomber pilots.

  In Nazi Germany, he’d become “friendly” with nuclear physicists who were also baseball fans.

  Berg never married. He died in 1977. His last words, to a hospital nurse, were, “How’d the Mets do today?”

  I had to agree with Tomlinson. Berg’s name was the perfect signal flag. My son was telling me that his e-mail included imbedded information.

  Now it was up to us to decipher it.

  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.”