“That’s right. Colonel Goethals granted you carte blanche within the zone, and I got you a truck, one of the surplus water carriers.”
“What happened to me?”
Before Sam could tell the story, Dr. Hamby said, “I’ve got rounds right now. I’ll come check on you later for a more thorough exam. As I understand it, retrograde amnesia is usually temporary. In a day or two it all should come back, though, if it doesn’t, there’s no real danger.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Rest now. And consider yourself the luckiest man in Panama.”
“Hello, all,” Tats Macalister greeted the room cheerfully as he slid past Hamby.
The Englishman wore riding breeches and a gaily striped muslin shirt stained with sweat around the collar and under the arms despite the early-morning hour. His eyes swept the room and immediately returned to Marion. “Felix told me you were up all night. If I may be so bold, you don’t look it at all.”
“Thanks, Tats,” Marion replied to the flattery. “You’re an accomplished liar.”
Macalister greeted Sam by name and shook his hand before angling his face toward Bell, still lying on the bed. Tats’s smile now touched his eyes. “I shudder to think the premiums you pay for life insurance, Isaac.”
“While it’s a group thing for all Van Dorn agents, I do think Joe had to get a special rider so I can be covered too.”
“I would have come last night, but I was engaged with some engineers from General Electric who thought us limeys don’t know how to play poker. I’m glad you’re okay.” Tats looked quickly to Marion. “He is okay?”
“Yes. Just sore, with a nasty bump on his head, and a little amnesia.”
“Amnesia? Awful, old sport. What do you remember?”
“Almost nothing. Sam was about to fill in some details.”
“By all means continue.”
Marion slid off the chair and perched herself on the bed so that she could rest a protective hand on Isaac’s leg. Sam remained standing, and Tats turned Marion’s chair around so he could rest his wrists on its back as he sat astride.
“The doctor wasn’t wrong,” Westbrook said to start his tale. “Isaac, you are the luckiest man in all of Panama. There was a survey crew working the far side of the cut opposite of where you went off the road and down into the canal. You are also the unluckiest, because as you went over the edge, you triggered a string of explosives likely planted last spring when we were working that section. Sometimes when we have a large shot, some of the dynamite doesn’t go off. Maybe a fuse gets cut. We don’t realize explosives have been left behind at the time, then it all goes off weeks or months later.”
He added grimly, “Usually, when some poor sod is working right above it.”
“I drove over the edge of the canal and right on top of an old string of dynamite?”
Sam nodded. “One of the men on the crew said it looked like the truck slid a little sideways off the road and tipped on its side before tobogganing down to the bottom of the canal. Seconds later, the charges went off, and a big chunk of the slope came down after you. They saw you dive into the water tank just before it was hit and then they lost sight of the truck.
“It turned out the avalanche carried you another eighty or so feet from where you’d first came to rest, though they didn’t know it at the time. All they saw was the wall of mud hit you and then you had simply vanished. When the avalanche finally settled, there was nothing to see, just a new field of mud and rock blocking half the channel. It’ll take months to dig all that slop out again.”
“How did you find me before my air ran out?”
“Near thing. You were as gray as a corpse, and just as stiff, when you were pulled free. The survey crew, having seen everything that happened, knew you were down there. While one of them took their truck to bring help, the other three slogged their way across the new landslide and started looking around, hoping to see part of the truck sticking out of the ground. They could estimate where the truck finally ended up but couldn’t find anything.
“An hour or so later, a crew of about fifty men arrived in a convoy. I was part of it because when I heard it was a water truck that went over, I figured it had to be you. You would have been on the road from Gamboa about then.”
“Gamboa?”
“Yeah, you had a meeting with Courtney Talbot in the morning.”
Bell shook his head, frustration furrowing his brow. He didn’t remember meeting with Court.
A concerned look came over Marion. “Maybe we should do this later, Isaac. You need to rest.”
“No, I’m fine.” But he knew he wasn’t fine. Not being able to rely on his wits was a disorienting shock that he could neither comprehend nor accept. At length he said, “You’re right, but let’s hear the rest of the story first.”
“And then straight to sleep.”
“Yes, Nurse Bell.”
“Mr. Westbrook, please keep it brief.”
“Yes, ma’am. Like I said, there were fifty of us, mostly islanders used to heavy shovel work. They hammered metal rods into the ground to try to locate the truck, but it was no use. There were so many boulders in the dirt that the rods either couldn’t penetrate very deeply or were deflected. Finally, it was a man who’d dropped his tobacco pouch who heard you first.”
“You heard me? Was I shouting?”
“No. You were tapping with something metal inside the tank. He’d been standing right on top of you, yet with all the banging and hollering and general hubbub of our rescue efforts no one heard it.”
A split-second flash of clarity raced across the synapses of Bell’s brain. “My .45? Where’s my pistol?”
“Your stuff is in the bottom drawer of the nightstand,” Marion said as she leaned forward to open it.
Some hospital staffer had laundered the clothes and folded them neatly. Bell’s boots were next to the wooden stand and they’d been cleaned too. Sandwiched between his shirt and pants were his undergarments and holster. She handed him the weapon, and Bell examined it. The magazine was missing. He assumed it had been removed and put in the holster. The butt plate at the bottom end of the grip showed numerous scratches where he’d tapped it repeatedly against the flange around the tank’s filler cap.
He showed the others. “This is what I used. I remember that now.”
“See,” Marion said, beaming. She’d noticed her husband’s disquiet over the retrograde amnesia. “It’s already coming back.”
“The funniest part is, you were tapping out a song, and one of the workers knew it. Pretty soon, he’d taught all the others the lyrics. Darnedest sight I’ll ever see is fifty men, stripped to their waist, in the rain, digging into the muck and mud and singing ‘Sailing Down the Chesapeake Bay’ over and over again.” He then sang in a surprisingly good voice, “‘Come on, Nancy, put your best dress on. Come on, Nancy, ’fore the steamboat’s gone.’”
Isaac and Marion joined him, though Tats Macalister stayed quiet, as he’d never heard the tune.
“‘Everything is lovely on the Chesapeake Bay. All aboard for Baltimore, and if we’re late they’ll all be sore.’”
Bell laughed for the first time since regaining consciousness.
“The men swear you kept perfect time for the first hour, though by then a lot of them were joking about you taking requests because the song had become repetitive.” Westbrook turned a little somber. “The jokes dried up when the tune trailed off, and you started tapping out Morse code. I told them that S.O.S. was a dire call for assistance, and, damn, if those men didn’t double their pace. I don’t think if we’d laid track and gotten a steam shovel on-site that more dirt would have been moved.
“We figured out the orientation of the tank as we excavated around it by noting where the mounting brackets had been torn free from the truck. We concentrated where we knew the filler cap would be. T
he men tore into the ground like savages, and when they came across a boulder that they could wrest out by hand, a few would act as riggers to secure it to ropes, the rest would pull it out like they were draft horses.
“You had become more than someone needing to be rescued, you became an inspiration in a fight they refused to lose. The softer you tapped your gun against the tank, the harder they worked because they knew you were dying and they were failing. In the end it was only a couple minutes after you stopped tapping that we could wrench open the tank and get a man inside to pull you out.”
“I had no idea,” Bell breathed. Everyone had been moved by the story, but him most of all since it was his life that they saved.
Marion clutched her husband’s hand. “We must do something for those men.”
Sam looked suddenly uncomfortable.
“What is it?”
“Once we got you out of the tank, I drove you straight here. The workers scattered. I’m sorry to say I don’t know who any of them were, and there’s no real way to track them down.”
“That’s the canal in a nutshell,” Tats Macalister said. “A heroic task undertaken by faceless men whose effort will be remembered but whose names were never known.”
“I’ll ask around, if you like,” Sam offered.
“Please do,” Bell said and tried to stifle a yawn.
“That’s our signal to go,” Macalister said, straightening up from his chair.
He and Westbrook shook Bell’s hand—Tats looked away at the last moment as if a little overcome by emotion at Bell’s survival—and bade their good-byes to Marion.
“I like them,” she said when they were alone. “Sam has been a real sweetie since he learned I was your wife. And that Tats Macalister—boy, could I make him a matinee idol in no time.”
Bell remained silent, his mind elsewhere.
“Stop thinking about what all those men did for you,” Marion said ardently. “You don’t need to feel that you owe them. They did it because they wanted to and because it was the right thing. You do the right thing all the time and never expect any kind of acknowledgment. You’re not in their debt, so quit brooding.”
He chuckled. “You can read me like a book.”
“One I am particularly fond of, so please stop trying to destroy it. Seriously, you could have died out there.”
“I think that was the intention.”
Her concern deepened. “Do you remember something?”
“No, but you know me and how well I drive. There’s no way I lost control on my own.”
“You were on an unfamiliar road in the middle of a storm in a truck you’ve never driven,” she pointed out. “Even you can make a mistake.”
“But I’m also on the trail of a violent insurgent group whose moneyman I killed a couple days before. I can well imagine they’d like their revenge.”
“Why such an elaborate trap?”
“If there were witnesses, it’s easier to explain away a road accident than standing over a dead body with a smoking gun in your hand.”
“But it could still just be an accident,” Marion persisted.
“Until my memory resolves itself, I have to be extra-careful and assume the worst, otherwise I’m leaving myself vulnerable.” Bell tried to lean over to reach into the nightstand, but the rush of blood to his head made him almost lose consciousness again. He flopped back onto the pillows. His face had turned the color of old ash.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“The magazine of my .45 should be in my holster.”
“I don’t think—” Marion stopped when she saw the determined look in her husband’s eye. She got up and perused the holster in the drawer, then handed him the loaded magazine.
He slipped it into the magazine well, quietly racked the slide, and then thumbed down the hammer. He slid the gun under his pillow. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Can I ask another favor?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“Leave Panama.”
The smile vanished.
“You heard me, Marion. You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous, and I’m in no condition to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protect—”
He cut her off. “You do. You’re a target now because you’re my wife. That makes you leverage. I can’t continue my investigation knowing you could be kidnapped or worse. You’re a distraction. A lovely, beautiful, wonderful distraction. And one I can’t afford.”
Her face bore a mask of utter frustration. He’d laid out a logical argument that she could not refute. Marion took another tack. “Let’s both get out of here. You’re in no shape to continue investigating. You hardly remember the past twenty-four hours. What can you hope to accomplish?”
“I can’t let some two dozen men die without getting justice,” he said.
She watched him for a moment. “This is your way to balance the scales, isn’t it?”
He didn’t reply.
“Don’t you see that it doesn’t, Isaac? Finding the killers will make no difference to the men who dug you out. It won’t repay the debt you feel you owe them.”
“There’s also Roosevelt’s visit, and the attack in California,” he said, then added, “You know I can’t leave this alone.”
“I do. Your dedication is one of the things I love most about you, but . . .”
“But there’s a price to pay. And you’re the one who pays it the most.”
“It’s okay.” Her smile was a little wan. “If I wanted a worry-free life, I would have married an accountant.”
Guilt rippled across Bell’s face. He loved Marion desperately and knew he caused her anguish with every case he took and every madman, anarchist, or murderer he chased down. It wasn’t that she didn’t know and understand his job before they married, yet he could tell that she worried more now as they both recalculated their mortality.
“I know that I know something,” he said at last. “I just don’t know what I know. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” Marion said, her voice softened by concern. “I also see that it’s killing you.”
“There’s a hole in my memory, a black void I don’t know how to fill.” Coming from Bell, this was an admission of doubt and weakness. “I’ve never experienced anything like it, Marion. It’s like my brain has let me down. Or I’ve let myself down. Or something.”
“Don’t torture yourself like this. You’ve been injured. It will take time to heal.”
“What if it doesn’t?” he asked. “What if the blow caused permanent harm? As you’ve so often pointed out, I live by my wits. Right now, I feel like a half-wit.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but she said nothing.
“I’m not sure how well I can look after myself here in Panama and I’m certain I can’t protect us both. I also know I can’t leave. I have to see this through to the end.”
“For your sake, I’ll go,” Marion said. “Me being here puts too much on your plate. You need to focus on yourself and the case. I accept that. I don’t like it, but I accept it.”
Relief washed over him, and the somber cast in his eyes brightened. He kissed her as tenderly as he ever had. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I was talking with some nurses last night when you were still unconscious. A few of them are at the end of their contract and are steaming back to San Francisco the day after tomorrow. I should be able to book passage on the same ship.”
“Perfect.”
“What are you going to do once you’re cleared to leave here?”
“I was told I was driving back from Gamboa after meeting Court Talbot. I don’t remember our get-together, but I have a vague image in my mind of a boat heading off into the mist. I think Talbot’s out hunting the Viboras on Lake Gatun. I need to t
alk to him about our meeting and, hopefully, jog loose whatever it was I understood before the crash.”
“Sounds to me like you’re thinking straight.”
“Thanks. In the meantime, I’ll see to it that Dr. Hamby thinks it’s a good idea to have another bed dragged in here until you’re safely out of the country.”
Her cheeks pinked and her eyes narrowed knowingly. “If we put extra pillows under the blanket, it’ll look like I’m actually using it.”
21
Bell was released from the hospital the next morning. His head was feeling clearer, though the retrograde amnesia persisted, and the knot above his brow was noticeably red. In addition, he had bruises on his arms, legs, and shoulders. None of his joints were impaired, thankfully. He wasn’t in top form, he freely admitted, but he could function.
It was on the drive from the Ancon Hospital to the Central Hotel that Bell began to sense rising paranoia in himself. Not knowing what had happened on the road from Gamboa made him feel vulnerable, and that made him imagine danger lurking all around. He no longer saw people walking the streets as they went about their business. He saw potential threats.
If he’d become a target of the Viboras, he realized that they could come after him at any time and any place and in any manner they chose. The passenger in the car next to him, as they idled at a crossing for a train to pass, could pull a gun and shoot him without warning. There was a man selling fruit juice, from a big brass urn strapped to his back, on the sidewalk outside the hotel. He could knife Bell, as he passed, then vanish in the crowd. There could be a sniper on just about any rooftop or window within a three-block radius.
That was the power of an insurgency, Bell knew, its ability to blend in and carry out attacks without provocation or warning. How does one fight an enemy you can’t detect until after they’ve struck? He thought about the guerrilla war grinding on in the Philippines and knew a long occupation doesn’t work. To end this, Bell had to think of some other way or the body count would continue to rise.
The Saboteurs Page 18
