He waved me to the table and offered the chair beside him. There was a brandy snifter before each of us. Mr. Garcia gave Ben a nod and turned to me. “Please allow me to offer a toast to a friendship built on trust.”
Ben returned with a bottle I had never seen before. Another nod from Mr. Garcia and he poured a generous amount into each glass.
“Michael, have you ever tried Apidoro?”
I was sure I had not.
“Before we drink, may I just say I selected it carefully. It’s made in Ponce, Puerto Rico. You won’t find it here. It’s only available in Puerto Rico.”
“Then how did you find it?”
He shrugged with a smile. “With the right connections. You know how it is.”
“I’m impressed.”
A deeper smile. “I’d hoped so. May I impose? It’s the teacher in me. Apidoro’s a wine made from fermented honey. The name means golden bee. Perhaps you know honey wine as mead.”
“That’s familiar.”
“Honey mead goes back over 9000 years among the Chinese. The first grape wine wasn’t made until 2000 years later among the Persians. Before Dionysus, the Greek mythical god, drank grape wine, he drank honey mead. As they say, ‘nectar of the gods.’”
He raised his glass, as did I. “May I toast a lasting friendship built on the most ancient foundation—trust? Were he not a myth, Dionysus would join us to solemnize our toast.”
Our glasses came together. It was the sound that ushered in a course of events that, had I known at the time, would have sent me bolting for the door.
We sat. I waited for him to initiate the conversation. We both knew the subject. Mr. Garcia’s optimistic smile gave way to a forehead furrowed with obvious concern. His voice dropped as well.
“But you didn’t come to hear about wine. I wish I had something better for you. When Victor Mendosa heard that on top of the loss of his brother, he was to be charged with Roberto’s murder, his first thought was to run.”
“How did he hear about the indictment, Mr. Garcia?”
“From me.”
“And how did you . . .”
“That’s another matter. Perhaps someday. In any event, I persuaded him to stay until I could arrange counsel to set this thing right. He moved into the housing project where you and I first met. My people could take care of him. Provide protection.”
“Was he there when we were there?”
He held up a hand. “I’m getting to that. No, he wasn’t. Sometime during the night before we met he was gone.”
“Did he leave any word?”
“No. But it’s worse than that. The two men I had staying with him for his protection were found behind the building. They were both dead.”
I was in total disbelief. “Was it Victor?”
“I’m sure not. The manner of the killing. You’re one of us by blood. But how much do you know about the ones called ‘insectos’?”
“I know . . . not much. They began in the Puerto Rican prisons like the Nyetas. They’re a rival . . .”
“They’re blood enemies. The manner of death of my two men, it’s their signature. I needn’t be descriptive.”
I needed a few seconds to absorb what I’d heard. “To be clear, Mr. Garcia. You’re not saying that Victor is a member of the insectos?”
“I’d bet my life that he’s not. From the time Victor left the Nyetas, he was free of it all.”
“You seem sure of it.”
“It was with my help alone that he could leave the Nyetas. And still live. I haven’t seen him as much in the last few years, but he’s still like my son. I know my son.”
I nodded. I wanted to believe.
He leaned even closer. “Victor had time—I assume while they were doing what they did to my men—to scratch something with a knife into a table in the room before they took him. It’s all I can give you.”
He took a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote something on a paper napkin, folded it, and slid it over to me. I glanced at it and slipped it into my pocket.
“But do you know where more specifically?”
“There’s a farm outside of the city of Mayagüez in Puerto Rico. It’s an insecto stronghold. If they took him anywhere, that would be my guess. I have a man watching it now. If anyone comes in or out, he’ll know it.”
We both sat back in the chairs, but our eyes were locked in some kind of silent bargaining. I knew what I had to say next, but I couldn’t get the words out for several seconds.
“Mr. Garcia, I think you’re asking me to go there to find Victor.”
I could see deep concern in his eyes. “All of our men are known to the insectos, both here and there. There’d be no chance of bargaining. Besides, I think you know yourself that as his lawyer, you’re the only one who could convince Victor to come back to stand trial.” He leaned closer to me. “If there were any other way, Michael, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
My mind was under attack from every side with arguments for and against what he was suggesting. I knew he wasn’t asking this for himself. I believed that his concern was for Victor. I also knew that I had my own obligation to Victor as a client, if not as a blood relative.
On the other hand, I had an obligation to Terry and our future, if there was to be one. And most certainly an obligation to Mr. Devlin, who would veto the idea in an instant.
The argument raged in my mind while I sipped the sweet honey mead that I now can’t even remember tasting. I finally stood. Mr. Garcia stood opposite.
“Michael, as much as my heart is in this request, if you say no, I’ll know you have reasons that have nothing to do with character. You’ll stand tall in my eyes whatever your decision. For what that’s worth.”
I held out my hand, and he took it. “It’s come to mean more than I thought it would, Mr. Garcia. Sometimes we think we have a choice, but we don’t. What’s inside of us always determines the decision, doesn’t it? The rest is just mental ping-pong. I’ll leave as soon as I can. Tomorrow.”
He held my hand, but his head was bowed. He shook his head for lack of words. He simply whispered, “Thank you, my friend.”
He took back the paper napkin on which he had written Victor’s message. He turned it over and wrote a name on it followed by an address in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico.
“Start here, Michael. It’s a bar, a club of sorts in the city. Ask for that name. I’ll get word to him. He’ll take you where you need to go. I would trust him with the lives of my grandchildren. His loyalty is beyond question. But . . . be careful. Cuidado, Miguel. In spite of appearances, trust no one else.”
That sent chills through my spine that could have called off all bets, but I’d just given my word.
“Please keep me advised, Michael. I may be able to help when you need it. You can always reach me through Ben.” He nodded toward the kitchen.
“Vaya con Dios, Miguel.”
* * *
I sat in the back of Carlos’ cab while he drove through the city to my apartment, this time at a legal speed. The list of things I had to accomplish within the next day was spinning through my mind like a roulette wheel. At the top of the list, I owed it to Terry to explain where I’d be for the next . . . who knew how many days. Although half of my ancestral roots were in Puerto Rico, I’d never set foot on the island. Based on a brief message Victor had carved into a table, that was about to change.
* * *
After a fitful attempt to score five hours of rest, if not sleep, I was back in a cab on the way to Winthrop shortly after sunrise. Much as I loved having time to think while someone else drove, I was beginning to miss sorely the cockpit of my Corvette. I made one call to the personal home number of the dealer who shared my passion for those obsessions on wheels. I set Bob Herman to scanning his computer for an identical replacement—ASAP.
A second call woke Julie, my secretary, out of a sound sleep. I asked her to book me on a flight that evening to Mayagüez on the west coast of Puerto Rico. She jumped to the conclusion that it was t
he weekend vacation she had been badgering me to take for months. I took the easy path and left that happy assumption intact. On the other hand, that quick, intuitive mind of hers was ringing with alarms when I asked her to leave the return open-ended.
“Michael, what are you up to? If this is more than the weekend, you’ve got me worried.”
“And when I return with a golden tan, you’ll be jealous instead of worried. I just don’t want to be pressured by a return date. I may take a day to see relatives.”
That seemed to get us over that bump in the road without actually lying. As far as Mr. Devlin was concerned, I knew I’d do better to inform him of my plans, such as they were, once I’d landed in Puerto Rico. Unlike Julie, Mr. D. had the power to veto the whole excursion.
Then I turned my full attention to the one for whom there could be no slick avoidance of the facts. I was at Terry’s door in Winthrop before she left for work in Boston.
Given the events of the previous evening—and not for the first time—if she handed back the ring at the door and opted out of a life that no sane person would voluntarily walk into, I’d have no reasonable argument.
I heard bare feet running to the door. Those same groundhogs that gnawed at my stomach lining the evening I proposed were back with puppies.
I stood there frozen. The door opened, and she was in my arms. I could feel her tears on my cheek. When she could, she said, “Michael, that was too close. What are you going to do?”
The only thing driving my next words was the absolute necessity to tell the truth, and all of it. I had a minute to think, while we came into the kitchen and she poured us each a cup of strong coffee.
I started at the beginning and let it all pour out—everything from the moment I saw Roberto fall under the weight of his horse to my meeting with Ramon Garcia just hours before. I told her about the promise I had made to Mr. Garcia and what might lay ahead in that city in Puerto Rico. I had perhaps never been so thoroughly honest in my life.
I knew she was shaken. I could only add two thoughts. First, whatever lay ahead of me in Puerto Rico, I had to face up to it because I’d made a promise. My training at the hands of both Miles O’Connor and Lex Devlin made that binding. I could only add that when I would pledge the oath of faithfulness in marriage to Terry, it would be equally unbreakable.
When I finished, we sat in silence. Now it could go either way, and everything that made life worth living from that point on was in her hands.
When she looked up at me, there was a calmness in her expression that gave me no clue. I took her hands and forced myself to meet her eyes for a decision.
“Where do we go from here, Terry?”
She spoke in a calmer tone than I expected. “You do what you feel you have to do, Michael.”
“And you, Terry?”
“I wait for you to come home to me. And then I marry the man I love.”
The relief must have shown in my face.
“Michael, I know what a promise means to you. It’s part of the man I love. And respect. But do you think you’re the only one? I knew about your life that night that I promised to marry you.”
“Terry, I promise that after this case ends, I’ll never—”
She put her hand on my mouth. “Wait, Michael. Don’t make a promise that you may not be able to keep. I trust you to do what’s right for us both. Always. Let’s leave it at that. And come home to me as soon as you can.”
PART TWO
TWELVE
PRESENT TIME
A village deep in the Amazon rainforest
on a remote tributary of the Amazon River, Brazil
THE MOST DEADLY poison known to man is found in a tiny frog called the golden poison dart frog. It is smaller than 1.5 centimeters, but it has the power to kill twenty men, or 10,000 mice, or two African bull elephants. Yet in the hands of an enlightened man, that same poison can be used to relieve pain and cure many diseases. I learned that, and almost everything I know, from my grandfather as a young boy.
His name is Ancuro and he was the shaman of our small tribe. I have always treasured my name, Ancarit, because it says I am his grandson. He was the only one in our village who ever traveled by raft down the river the outsiders call the Jaraucu, and into the great river that he said was beyond all of our imagining, called the Amazon.
He spent most of the years while I was growing to the age of fourteen beyond the river’s bend. When he returned, the older members of my tribe said that he was changed. I asked how, but none could explain it.
I remember countless evenings after his return, fighting for a place on the ground close enough to him to hear every story, every word of knowledge and wisdom he would speak to us. What worlds he opened. For us, the bend in the river marked the boundary of our venturing in safety because of teeming death from black caiman in the river to jaguars, killer bees, anacondas, and more under the dense canopy of trees. He said that this forest we knew, where it nearly always rained, was like a speck in the eye of the great God who made lands we could not fathom.
He told us what a city was and what it did to the people steeped in fear and ambition who lived there. He said they were not like us. He warned that someday they would come to our village in great boats, and our lives would be changed.
I asked my grandfather how they were different. I saw something pass over his face that I could not understand then. He just shook his head, and I didn’t ask any more.
At fourteen, I was of an age to absorb everything he could teach me. Our tribe lived mainly on the abundance of fruits, berries, and plants there for the picking, but when we could, we also feasted on the meat of the monkeys that darted through the branches of the thick canopy of trees above us. That was rare until the return of my grandfather. Our simple blow-darts would seldom do more than annoy them with pricks of the skin.
When my grandfather returned, he took me deep into our forest. He told me to watch every move he made and learn. He first covered his hands in the broad, leathery leaves of a plant that clung to the great Kapok trees. Then he moved silently deep into the forest, making small marks on the trees as he went. I followed closely, heeding his caution to keep silent.
He scoured the ground close to the trees until he saw what we had always been taught to avoid—the swarming activity of a colony of venomous ants. He sat quietly on the backs of his legs within a few feet of their circle. He gestured to me to do the same. Within minutes I saw his eyes riveted on the approach of a tiny frog the size of my thumbnail. It was the color of pure gold all over its body.
We watched as the frog moved in small hops to within inches of the ant colony. It sat quietly for a few moments until, rapid as a flash of lightning, its long tongue shot from its mouth. A dozen tiny ants were stuck to the moist tongue when it snapped back into the frog’s mouth. While this happened again and again, my grandfather crawled behind the frog. Finally, at one flick of the frog’s tongue, my grandfather pounced and held the frog tightly between the leaves on his hands.
He told me to make a fire while he secured his grip on the back legs of the tiny frog. When I came close to see it, he waved me back. But he said to watch closely.
He turned the frog and held its back closer and closer to the fire until a frothy white foam oozed out of the pores of its back. My grandfather took out of his quiver three of the darts I had seen him fashion out of bamboo wood the previous day. He rubbed the tips of the darts in the foaming ooze and stuck the dry end of each dart into the ground to let the foam dry. He released the frog unharmed and let it hop back to the ant colony to finish its meal.
When the dart tips were dry, he led me deeper into the forest toward the chattering of a cluster of spider monkeys lazing in the afternoon sun toward the top of the tree canopy. My grandfather waved me to sit quietly on the ground. He took one of the coated darts from his quiver and loaded it into his long blowpipe. He took careful aim at a large male that had draped himself over one of the lower branches. With one rapid burst of air from his
lungs, he sent the dart on a true course to the belly of the monkey.
He whispered one word. “Watch.”
I had sent many blow darts on courses just as true. The monkeys they struck cursed us for the annoyance of the pinprick and moved to a higher branch.
This was different. The monkey began to climb higher, but within a few seconds, its arms and legs stopped moving. It was dead weight when it came crashing through the tree branches to the ground beside us.
That evening, there was fresh meat over the fire in the center of our village. It was roasted and shared by all. There was great celebration, because what happened that day could happen again the next day. Our village would be blessed with fresh meat from then on.
The praise spread to me since I had also returned with the miraculous catch. When I cast the glory onto my grandfather, he said to me, “Tomorrow, the catch will be yours.”
And so it went. What I learned from my grandfather over the next few years could fill many books. I learned that the yellow dart frog poison that killed the monkeys was harmless to us once the meat was well cooked.
With this wonderful knowledge, my grandfather and I brought to the daily feasts of our village the succulent meat of the hundred-pound capybara that could previously dive and swim great distances underwater lest we catch it.
My grandfather also taught me to use bits of the frog poison in combination with the excretion of particular plants to cure many of the illnesses of our people and to relieve pain. It became clear that he was preparing me to replace him as shaman when his time came.
And he taught me something else. He taught me the language of the large tribe he called the Portuguese who lived in the cities far beyond the bend in the river. He also taught me some of the language of the people he called the English. He told me I had to be prepared for the day the great boats would come to the shore of our village.
I took his lessons to heart, though I’ll admit now that I had no real sense of what it was that drove him to teach me as if time were running out.
* * *
On the day that a boat nearly a quarter of the width of our river came around the bend and approached our shore, there was no fear, only excitement among our tribe. Our people flocked to the shore to see what this ark brought to us.
Fatal Odds Page 9
