Slack tried to persuade himself he was overly concerned. Maybe this wasn’t such a catastrophe, Halcón’s venture had profited him well, he was an honourable man, he would free Glo Walker, and the deal would be signed off, all without Slack’s intervention. Maggie would escort Glo to freedom in the Suzuki Sidekick, they could be heading to the nearest phone right now.
That promising alternative boosted his hopes, maybe his ass wouldn’t be hung on the line to dry, he would explain the matter had been taken out of his hands, an impetuous act by Maggie Schneider. But how could she have been so rash and irresponsible?
Maybe she’d run off with Halcón with noble intentions, deciding on the fly to do the deal by herself, protecting Slack from the wrath of his handlers. Walker, already squirming, was going to look even more ridiculous with his slanders about Slack being in league with Halcón.
The taxista, a handsome greying mestizo, occasionally glanced at Slack in the rear view, frowning but saying nothing, obeying entreaties for speed, breaking minor traffic laws. The rain finally relented as they reached the port, its docks well lit, busy with commerce even at night, the crane working, containers of bananas being lifted aboard a small rusty freighter.
Slack told the driver to wait while he reconnoitred. The freighter didn’t have passenger cabins, and he saw no cruise vessels. Smaller launches would be tied up at the entrance to the canals that webbed through the Caribbean lowlands, longboats offering tours to Tortuguero, as far as Barra del Colorado, near the Nicaraguan border.
“To the canal,” Slack said.
The driver looked over his shoulder, got a good view of Slack in the light of a lamppost. “I have seen you on television, señor. You are the one who supports the man they call Halcón. I am cheering for your side. Halcón is for the people.” A friendly. “Why are you here, señor, if it is not impolite to ask?”
Slack leaned to his ear. “I am helping Halcón escape. We are looking for a rented Suzuki Sidekick.”
The canal’s dock was in a gated compound, fenced against thieves. A dozen long canopied boats were tied up at the wharf, along with several smaller craft.
His supportive taxista honked for the gatekeeper to let them in, then pulled into a parking area. “Maybe this is what you are looking for, señor.” Bingo, a stroke of luck, the target vehicle. Slack scrambled from the taxi, looked in the windows of the locked Suzuki, it was empty, no duffle bags.
Slack tried to pay his driver, but his money was refused, Slack was an ally of heroic Halcón. He sprinted to the dock and saw a short fellow busily jotting notes. Gordo, he thought at first, but a closer look revealed him to be, however unlikely, Frank Sierra.
“Excellent, you made the right guess. We have not much time. Do you see – in the distance?”
“Frank, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Look, that is their boat.”
A couple of hundred yards north, before the canal curved from sight, he made out a small craft, a light at the bow. Frank flipped through a couple of pages of his notebook. “Five-metre fibreglass cabin cruiser, yellow with green trim, a thirty-horse outboard. It will be slow, we must be faster.”
Slack demanded explanations.
“It appeared Mr. Bakerfield would not be available until tonight, so I flew here. I was concerned that you would not have backup.” His tone seemed gently chiding, Slack had pulled a boner leaving Maggie alone with the money.
Frank had been sitting in a taxi at the square, watching and waiting, had seen Halcón join Maggie in the Sidekick. No arguments, no coercion, twenty seconds of conversation, and she simply drove off with him. Ten minutes ago, Frank had arrived here to find them throwing the duffle bags into the boat and slipping it from its moorings.
Slack had been down these canals a few times, trips to the mystical beauty of the Tortuguero lagoons. Strung out along the waterways were scattered farms and houses, the occasional bar or soda, then the watery wilderness of Parque Nacional Tortuguero. A labyrinth of side canals and rivers would make the search especially difficult at night.
A twin Comanche, Elmer had said, near the border. Barra del Colorado with its landing strip seemed the likely destination, Nicaragua just a hop over the San Juan River. There were also small strips closer, at Parisimina and Tortuguero, near the Turtle Research Station. Or if Halcón had a safe house on the canal, maybe he wasn’t rushing to a plane.
Only a few people were on the dock, a man sitting on the planks with a disassembled outboard, a couple repairing a fishing net by the light of a kerosene lamp, and a stout guy bailing out a fifty-foot taxi launch, “Fast Willie’s Reliable All-Day Service.” Leaky, though, because Fast Willie was working a pedal-powered bilge pump. But a Merc Eighty-five was clamped onto the stern.
Negotiations proved difficult. Not at night, sorry mon, said Willie, he was stripped to the waist, showing a robust black paunch. Even the prospect of an excessive fare didn’t entice him, his wife was in hospital expecting a baby. “I going there right soon.”
When they offered to charter his launch, five hundred dollars for the night, it obviously dawned on Willie that these two customers were not only anxious to get underway but possessed of abundant means. He frowned, giving it thought, calculating how much he dared raise the ante.
The yellow-and-green cabin cruiser had disappeared from sight, Slack was irritated. “Name a figure, goddammit.”
“Three t’ousan dollar, mon.” To allay the shock, he added, “Including extra thirty gallons of gas.”
Halcón had half a mile on them already, Slack would pay this thief’s ransom. He was reaching for his wad when Halcón’s fan, the taxi driver, came between them, pulled Willie aside. They had a low, intense conversation. The man and woman who had been sewing up holes in their nets were now part of the scene, and the small-engine mechanic was on his way. “The gringo, he is a great friend of Johnny Falcon,” the taxista said. “They are helping him escape.”
“It was Halcón we saw,” the woman said excitedly to her partner. “He is even more handsome than his pictures. And with a woman. Isn’t she the lucky one.”
“Was it truly Halcón? “said the mechanic. He crossed himself.
“Damn. Frank, we have to shut down these wild rumours.”
“There is an expression I have read in crime novels, paper the joint.”
“Four hundred for each day,” said Willie. “Plus two hundred deposit.” He seemed resentful at having been leaned on, maybe the only local around here who wasn’t supporting Halcón for president.
Slack gave Willie a thousand instead, and a hundred to each of the others. “You must say nothing about what you have seen tonight,” he urged them.
Sí, señor. Entiendo. We are hurt that you would ask, señor. Slack didn’t hold out much hope.
– 2 –
Slack was forced to keep to fifteen knots so he could inspect the vessels tied up by the few rickety homes abutting the shoreline. The engine was running well, the only problem being the leak in the caulking, Frank occasionally having to work the bilge pump. Otherwise he was quietly sitting at the stern watching the fishing bats dip and scoop at the water.
The moon was large, a few days from full, drenching the jungle with a bright light, airbrushing a shimmering path up the centre of the waterway. This was a generous habitat, there were jaguars here, spoonbills, tiger herons, basilisk lizards that walked on water. This was the Costa Rica that Slack loved, right down to the venomous vipers and man-eating crocodiles. Its gentle beauty was marred only by plastic pesticide bags tangled in the branches of shoreline trees, they floated down the lagoons from the plantations. He tried not to think about the murder of turtles in the name of spotless bananas, he had depressed Maggie with his eco-snivelling.
The canal narrowed, a shallow stretch, Slack had to raise the engine as he squeezed past a dredge barge. Finally, they swept into a wide lagoon rimmed with beds of water hyacinth, clumps of which had broken free, garlands strewn across the water. As the time slow
ly passed, he began to feel a hypnotic effect from the pulling moon, the thrum of the engine, the splash of water against the bow.
A boat motored by, a lantern shining from its cabin. Here was the Pacuare River, he’d kayaked it, and an opening to the sea, the surf drumming from behind palm-lined dunes. He came to a fork, another river or maybe the lagoon dividing, creating an island. He slowed, deliberated, chose the right branch, the main canal, parallel to the shore. But Halcón could have gone up the Pacuare, even chanced heading out to sea.
They passed a couple of houses on stilts, a crowing rooster out of synch with dawn, a barking dog. After several minutes, the channels merged, and a village of sorts came into view on the right bank, a few houses, an old man on a porch enjoying the night, a tiny pulpería with its smokes, Cokes, canned tuna, and stale bread.
A few small dugouts were tied up here, but no yellow-and-green cabin cruiser. Slack idled the engine, conferred with Frank.
“I’m thinking we should go back up the other fork.” Halcón and his crew would want to be near the pulpería, a ready supply of food, propane, toiletries. Frank was looking at the store, too, he nodded his agreement.
Around a bend, a wooden shack, then nothing for a hundred metres. On the right, on the narrow island between the parallel waterways, the moon illuminated a shanty, a couple of pigs sleeping on the porch. Finally, they approached a two-level clapboard house on stilts, a big place for the area, at least five rooms.
There was a dock of sorts, two floating logs chained to a tree, two boats tied to it, an overpowered Zodiac … and a five-metre yellow-and-green cabin cruiser.
Slack wasn’t going to risk the women’s safety with a sudden approach, he would reconnoitre first. He putted slowly past, found a channel through the hyacinth, idled the engine by a tangle of swamp palms.
He motioned to Frank to take over as pilot. “I’m going in by land.”
“Take care.”
The house couldn’t be far, but Slack saw he faced a daunting task penetrating the thick growth near the shore. He’d found a machete in the boat, but no flashlight, he’d have to work by the light of the moon – and quickly, because the pale goddess was now drifting among thickening veils of clouds.
He stepped off the boat onto a root, but felt his footing give way. Almost too late, he realized he was standing on a very large animate object — a crocodile, and suddenly it was submerging, thrashing its tail. Fuelled by the adrenaline of primal fear, he somersaulted over the skein of roots of a tall tree, just out of reach of a pair of snapping jaws.
The boat was drifting away, Frank calling anxiously to him, and in a cracked voice Slack managed some phrases of reassurance, told him to wait thirty minutes, then come in.
All his senses were on alarm as a result of this near-death experience. No more missteps. He calculated his distance from Halcón’s house at about a hundred metres. There’d been yucca and plátanos behind the house, and a clearing beyond this thicket that likely extended to a trail.
He chopped at a tangle of branches, disturbing a pair of snowy egrets, which flew off with squawks. He finally emerged upon a narrow path – he’d lost the moon, clouds were beginning to fill the sky. A brighter, briefer light, a spiderweb of lightning, a guttural rumble.
The path ascended gently to the clearing, yucca in several scraggy rows, plantains and papayas, the two-storey house rising above them. From this different vantage, he could see a flickering light from an upstairs window, probably a candle. No sign of anyone serving as yard dog, Halcón must have jettisoned his crew, Gordo and Zorro and the rest.
A few fat drops of rain, a flash and another bark of thunder, closer now, a sudden gust of wind, a squall on its way. He thought he heard voices from the house but wasn’t sure.
He slipped from tree to tree with elaborate care, scrutinizing everything. Bakerfield had force-fed him the manual back in the seventies, clock all terrain surrounding the target facility, observe the scene both generally and in detail, seek the unusual, locate escape routes.
But need he be so slow and vigilant? He had no enemy here, and only one task – to ensure the transaction was duly completed, the ransom paid, Glo freed. Then he’d shake Halcón’s hand and wish him buen viaje. Following which he would have a few carefully chosen words with Maggie Schneider.
The clouds had begun to let go their burden, the night went black with drenching rain as he crept down to the dock. A pair of Evinrude 90s on the fifteen-foot Zodiac, a line tied with a slipknot to a ring in the log.
The Zodiac had to be Halcón’s getaway vehicle. Johnny could easily make one or other of the airstrips in an hour or two – then maybe Nicaragua, but more likely over the Caribbean to Panama, or Colombia, the corrupt security of San Andres Island.
And what of his partner, the friendly, the consumer of drug salads? Had he been collared or was he hiding? Slack would tell Johnny Diego not to feel guilty about kissing Elmer out, the fellow was a quisling, a shill for Walker. Take your money and run, Halcón.
He ventured farther out on the log, it was wide enough to walk on but slippery in the pelting rain. He knelt and reached around inside the Zodiac, finding nothing of interest, a few marine tools, an anchor. But when he reached into a Velcro side pouch, he fetched out a plastic baggie containing several buds of marijuana, a lump of what was probably hash, and several pills.
Slack’s alarms rang, this was not Halcón’s boat, he had a visitor, a pissed-off former partner-in-crime. Elmer Jericho had known about this hideout, guessed Halcón would head to it. While Slack had been lollygagging, waiting for the night, Elmer had sped here. Senator Walker had let his friendly slip past the lines … and maybe even whisked him to Limón, outfitted him with the fast boat … with instructions to do what? Somehow finish the job.
Ed Creeley’s words came back: “He’s even better off if they snuff her.” Could Walker have planned Glo’s death, thinking to cast blame on the terrorists? Elmer might have his own bloody agenda, too, revenge against Halcón. A lawyer, they do it to you every time.
If Elmer was here, could Walker’s Rangers be far behind? Slack moved quickly toward the shelter of the house, working his way among the plantain trees before skipping under the veranda. The house was raised on sturdy posts, a ramshackle staircase the only access.
The squall was abating, but the rain made so much din on the roof that he could hear nothing from inside the house. Slack pulled his revolver, cracked it open, spun the chamber, six live bullets. He made his way slowly up the stairs to the porch, hugged the wall, peered through a screened window, almost totally dark, indistinct outlines of clothing or bedding.
The entire house was screened, including the flimsy front door, locked with an eyehook. He looked around a corner, saw the candlelight still glowing from the window. The porch extended far enough to allow an angle view into the room, and his body stiffened as he took in Maggie’s profile. She was gagged and trussed with duct tape, her arms tied behind her, still wearing her cap and T-shirt, “Pura Vida, Costa Rica.” Her eyes were wide with fear.
He craned over the porch railing as far as he could without toppling and got a partial view of Gloria-May’s head, her mouth also taped. Both women were sitting against a post, their wrists tied to it. Elmer was orating, one of his astral-travelling monologues. Slack could hear more clearly when he put his ear to a crack between the planks.
“There’s a vacuum out there, man, our whole universe could tumble into it, it’s caused by, okay, what you got is black holes merging with neutron stars. When a supernova explodes, a red supergiant, all life is toast anyway, get what I mean?” He sounded speedy, still on acid, his purple passion pills. “This lump of pig shit we call Earth, it’s … it’s irrevalent compared to what’s going on up there.”
Slack returned to the door and quickly slashed an opening with two swipes of his knife, and released the hook, using his left hand, keeping his revolver in his right. Inside, he felt around — thin mattresses on the floor, some rumpled sheets
, a pair of shorts, a man’s shirt, a brassiere. More clothing in the corner, washed and neatly stacked. Books, magazines, a carton of Derbys.
An interior door was standing open, and he edged past it into a small kitchen. His hands found the duffle bags, sitting on the floor, open and still full, bundles of hundreds spilling from one of them. Also open were two large, empty suitcases. Candlelight was coming from behind a curtained doorway and from between shelves beside it, stocked with tinned goods. Through a gap with a wide-angle view, he was able to see not only the two women, but Halcón, also gagged, bundled in duct tape. Elmer had somehow thought this through, or been well briefed.
A mosquito coil was burning. The thick stub of a burning candle on the floor beside Halcón illuminated his face with dancing flecks of light. His handsome features had been marred, a puffed-up lower lip, a thin crack of dried blood, an ugly abrasion on one cheek. His eyes stared dark and cold at Elmer, who was standing, facing away from Slack, gripping a handgun.
“Betelgeuse, that’s at the shoulder of Orion, you can see it easy, only four hundred light-years away and it’s ready to pop. It’s what we call a gamma ray burster, in just seconds you got more energy than the entire galaxy produces the whole year. Means finito, man, for the whole solar system. Hoovered right into the old black hole. Seems a waste, don’t it, after all the work we put into this fucking joint.”
It would be risky to make any hasty moves, he was tripping, he could fire that gun at someone. “The way I look at it, we’re like insects in the eternal scheme of things. Less than insects, microbes, specks of dust.”
Elmer shambled behind the retaining post, and Slack got a good look at him, sweating, his pupils dilated from the LSD. Slack saw that he was not into some ordinary bad trip, there was something terrible in his eyes. The handgun was a .45, U.S. army issue.
Elmer prodded Halcón hard with his knee. “We used to round up the village heads, teach them respect, we called it pacification. Hey, listen, they used to send me out to do different towns, and if I get nothing or I don’t like what I see, I call in the napalm, man. Don’t think it didn’t bother me, I’m human. But a single other life don’t matter in comparison. In the grand scheme, all our fucking lives don’t fucking matter.”
The Laughing Falcon Page 36
