Night Vision df-18

by Randy Wayne White

  The fact was, I was doing it now-obsessing-and I forced myself to concentrate. Later, I could wallow in the knowledge of my inadequacies. Tonight, I still had work to do.

  There were a lot of unanswered questions. Unless I was willing to risk prison, I had to understand what had happened here. Obsessive or not, details are vital when manipulating a crime scene.

  I asked Victorino, “Is Squires in there, too?” The wooden building, I meant.

  I knew the man wasn’t telling me the whole truth when he replied, “I think so. Him and that woman, Frankie, they did some weird, kinky shit. But she got pissed off at him. That Frankie is crazy.”

  I watched Victorino’s head swivel. “Where the hell that woman go? She’s the one you ought to be hammering on, man. Not me.”

  When I told him the woman had been in the RV when it exploded, he did a poor job of hiding his reaction-a mix of relief and perverse satisfaction.

  Victorino and Frankie had been sexually involved at one time, I guessed. Hatred is often catalyzed by the pain of previous intimacies-or infidelities.

  I asked, “Were his hands tied? His feet? What about Squires?”

  I was trying to assemble a better overview of who had done what to whom. Before crime scene police could understand who the bad guys were, I had to understand it myself.

  Victorino replied, “Man, I had nothing to do with that shit.” When he saw my expression change, though, he added quickly, “But, yeah, I’m pretty sure Frankie had them both tied pretty good. She was getting ready to do a video deal, you know? So later she could have fun watching herself do shit to the girl, and her old boyfriend, too. A freak, man. I already told you.”

  The truth of what had happened was becoming clearer in my mind despite Victorino’s dissembling. As the man continued talking, inventing details, I was studying the portion of wall that had been blown open. It was a narrow section of planking wide enough for me to see inside, if the angle was right, but not large in comparison with the rest of the structure.

  It bothered me for some reason. What I was seeing didn’t mesh with my knowledge of explosives and the complex dynamics involved. At that instant, as if to illustrate, another propane canister exploded, and we both ducked instinctively, watching a column of red sparks shoot skyward.

  Victorino was telling me, “My boys and me, we sold them grass, coke, whatever. Sometimes moved some of the muscle juice shit they made-strictly business, you understand. That’s the only reason we come out here tonight. Then this shit happened.”

  What bothered me about the hole in the wall, I realized, was that the boards had shattered geometrically, yet it was a random displacement of matter in an otherwise solid wall.

  What I was seeing made no sense. An explosive force creates a rapidly expanding wave of pressure slightly larger than the volume of the explosive. It expands with predictable symmetry-a three-dimensional sphere capped by a matrix of superheated gases and particles. The matrix created by the exploding propane takes was rocketing upward. Why had this small space been blown outward?

  But then I decided that the anomaly could be explained in many ways. A weakness in the structure, an absence of bracing because the hole had once been a window or a door. The shack looked homemade, sturdy but inconsistent. What I was doing, I realized, was fishing for hope-hope that the girl and Squires had managed to crash their way through the wall and escape.

  The fire had started so suddenly, though, the heat and flames so intense that the pair would have had very little time to knock a hole in what had been a very solid wall. And they had both been tied, hands and legs.

  “The bitch invited us,” Victorino told me. “She told me they had a new batch of muscle juice. Only reason my boys and me were here tonight. And we got certain security procedures we follow. Two guards at the gate, two of my best men with me riding shotgun. A dude they don’t know shows up, they’re trained to take certain steps. It was nothing personal. You understand.”

  I waited, watching Victorino’s eyes move from the fire to the shattered windows of the Dodge pickup, aware that at least two of his men were dead inside. The truck appearing animated in the oscillating light. I wondered if the man would have the nerve to ask what he was aching to know. He finally tried.

  “Maybe you know something about the steroid trade yourself?” I watched Victorino grin, showing his gold teeth. He wasn’t a badlooking guy, actually. He had a good chin, a strong Aztec nose and cheeks. Had the man made different decisions-or been born in a different setting-he might have succeeded in a legitimate business.

  Staring into the fire, I said, “Her name was Tula Choimha-the surname dates back to the time of the Maya. She was thirteen years old, two thousand miles from home, and the girl had no one to protect her from scum like you. That’s why I’m here.”

  Victorino chose not to respond.

  Slowly, I backed away from the heat. Victorino backed away, too, but he was gradually creating more distance between us, I noticed, until I hollered at him to stop. I used the pistol to wave him closer, before telling him, “Let’s get in the truck and get the hell out of here. You drive.”

  It surprised the man. He replied, “Both of us you mean?” unsure if he had less to fear or more to fear.

  “A plane or a helicopter’s going to spot the flames,” I told him. “Cops and firefighters will be coming soon. Maybe park rangers-we’re close enough to the Everglades. I don’t want to be here when they show up. How about you?”

  I had taken off the night vision headgear, and Victorino jerked his head away when he realized I was going to remove the ski mask, too.

  Mask up-but not off-my face pouring sweat, I told the man, “It’s okay. You can look.”

  Victorino was three steps ahead of me, facing the truck. I could see his mind working, wondering what was going on.

  The man stood frozen for what seemed like several seconds. Perhaps because I began to whisper to myself, repeating a private liturgy, he finally turned to look at me.

  When he did, I asked, “Where’s the money? Sixty thousand dollars cash.” I didn’t know if the drunken woman was telling the truth, but I was thinking about Tula Choimha’s determination to lead her family home to Guatemala. They would need money.

  Victorino’s eyes revealed the money’s location, but I waited until he lied to me, replying, “Money? What money?” the staged look of confusion still on the man’s face when I shot him in the chest. A few seconds later, I shot him at close range in the back of the head.

  His partner’s. 44 Smith amp; Wesson made a thud when it landed on the ground beside Victorino’s body.

  I wasn’t going to invest much time searching for the money-if it existed. What I had told Victorino was true. The hunting camp was in one of the most remote regions in Florida, yet a fire of that magnitude might still attract attention.

  I found the cash in a canvas gym bag on the floor of Squires’s truck, along with a. 357 Ruger Blackhawk revolver. The temptation was to get behind the wheel of the truck, and drive as fast as I could back to the main road. But then I remembered that the Dodge blocked the exit. Bulldozing the thing out of the way would take time and would make a lot of noise. It would also prove that at least one of the shooters had escaped.

  It was safer, cleaner, if I returned on foot.

  To add further confusion to the scene, I tossed the Blackhawk under the truck, then took off, jogging toward the darkness, gym bag over my shoulder, as I repositioned the night vision monocular over my left eye.

  I had learned my lesson. Until I was close enough to my truck to risk stepping into the open, I would stay in the shadows. To me, darkness-and open water-have always represented safety.

  I am a stubborn man, though. Because the anomalous hole in the wall still bothered me and because it would be the driest route back to my truck, I chose to run past the burning shack before turning into the woods. There, the topography was upland pine. Plenty of cover but lots of open ground, unlike the swamp to my right. It would b
e a hell of a lot easier to parallel the hunting camp road before angling to the gate where my truck was hidden.

  There was a third reason: I also believed that if Squires and the girl had managed to escape, they would have had to travel a similar path to safety. It was unlikely that they had survived, but it would satisfy my mania for thoroughness while also providing an ironic last hope that my obssessiveness hadn’t cost a young girl her life.

  It happened.

  Fifty yards into the woods, north of where the shack was still burning, I heard a mewing sound. It was soft, rhythmic, a noise so similar to the sound of wind in the pine canopy that I would have dismissed it as a feral cat had I not been wearing night vision.

  After only a few more steps, I could discern the source of the noise. It was Tula Choimha. She was kneeling over a massive shape that I soon realized was the body of Harris Squires.

  I had been moving so quietly, the girl hadn’t heard me. I didn’t want to frighten her, but I also realized that I couldn’t allow her to see my face. I lowered the ski mask, readjusted the monocular, then knelt before calling to her softly, “Tomlinson sent me. Don’t be afraid. Your friend Tomlinson wants me to help you.”

  It was as if I had spoken a secret password. Instead of being startled, the girl jumped to her feet and ran to me, sobbing, then threw herself into my arms. Only when she noticed my strange headgear did she recoil, but I patted her between the shoulders as I held her and spoke into her ear, saying, “I’m taking you home. Please don’t ask me any questions. Okay? But it’s true, I’m taking you home.”

  Through the lens, the girl’s face was as radiant as phosphorus, but I could also see that her nose was swollen, her face bruised. She stared at me for a moment, and I sensed she knew exactly who I was, although she had only seen me briefly after the alligator attack at Red Citrus.

  “You’re Tomlinson’s friend?” she asked, but there was a complexity to her intonation that signaled she was asking far more than that simple question.

  “I’m taking you home,” I repeated. “That’s all I can tell you. But first I need to know how badly you’re hurt. Someone hit you in the face, I can see that. But were you burned? It’s important that you tell me the truth.”

  My mind was already scanning our options. If Tula needed emergency attention, the decision was easy. I would call 911 and risk the fallout-claim to have found her wandering in the woods, which was true. If she was okay, I would park in the shadows at Red Citrus and not let her out of my truck until Tomlinson had arrived and found her “officially.”

  But the girl replied, “I have a headache, that’s all. Some of my hair got singed. The only reason I’m not hurt is because”-her head pivoted toward Squires-“because the giant saved me. I have never met a man so strong-stronger than Hercules, even. We were in a building, there was a fire, so he picked me up like a bear, then we both crashed through a wall.”

  Carrying the girl in my arms, I walked toward Squires. What I saw was unexpected. The man appeared to be badly burned on his shoulders, yes, but he had also been peppered with a shotgun and castrated. It caused me to remember what Victorino had said about the woman I had seen running from the RV, batting at imaginary flames.

  “That Frankie is crazy,” he had told me.

  It was a rare nugget of truth from the gang leader.

  “Please,” the girl told me after several seconds. “You shouldn’t look at Harris anymore. He’s not covered. God is with him now, but we still need to show respect. I’ll come back later. I’ll pray for Harris and then cover him with a shroud.”

  I wasn’t surprised that Tula was in shock. But I also wondered if she was delusional-something I had suspected from the first-because she leaned her mouth close to my ear as if to whisper a secret, saying, “Jehanne already told me that you were coming. That you would be wearing a helmet like a knight. I expected it to be made of steel”-the girl touched her fingers to my ski mask-“but this is the armor that Jehanne spoke of. I understand now. You are the warrior knight God sent to save me. That’s why I understand I cannot ask you questions.”

  “Jehanne,” I said gently even though I had never heard the name. “Yes… that was good of her. I’m glad she told you because I didn’t want you to be afraid.”

  Cradling the girl in my arms, I turned and began walking in the direction of my truck. Tula laid her head against my shoulder and began to cry. After a few steps, though, she pulled away and plucked at an oversized polo shirt that covered her like a dress, saying, “Normally, I’m not so weak, but I can’t help myself. It’s hard for me to leave Harris all alone because he fought for me so hard. He even gave me his shirt to wear. And he found my amulets-my shields.”

  The girl was cupping what looked like a necklace, as she continued, “Once I was wearing my amulet, I thought everything was going to be okay, that God would heal him. That we would live in the mountains together, where I could take care of him. But then… but then…”

  I felt the girl’s body shudder, and I expected her to say that it was then that Squires had died.

  Instead, Tula turned to look at something I hadn’t yet noticed. It was an elongated form lying in the distance, difficult to decipher details even with night vision. I began walking toward the shape as I listened to the girl explain, “But even God can’t control evil. The power it has over people-a giant like Harris, it makes no difference. I wonder sometimes if even Jehanne understands.”

  The girl nodded toward the shape, her expression fierce, then turned away before telling me, “Evil. That’s what killed Harris-even though I fought to save him just like he fought for me. She came out of the darkness, screaming profanities, and running. It surprised us. Both of us. I fought back. But Harris lost his strength and died.”

  Carefully, I placed the girl on the ground, her back turned, and I walked to the body of the woman I had seen fleeing the RV. It was Frankie, I realized

  I knelt, then risked moving the woman’s arms to assess her injuries as best I could. To be certain, I even used a small LED light to check her legs, her face, a portion of her abdomen.

  The flames might not have been imaginary, but Frankie’s body had only minor burns. Some blistering on her arms and a head of singed red hair. Maybe the explosion had blown the woman clear of the fire-possible, if she had been standing in an open doorway when a cigarette ignited the propane.

  I knew from what I’d witnessed that the woman was already drunk. Alcohol could have contributed to her hysteria, so Frankie had assumed the worst, panicked and sprinted into the woods. Maybe the woman had tripped and fallen. Or collapsed from exhaustion-but only after surprising the Guatemalan girl and her injured bodybuilder protector.

  What my careful scenario didn’t explain was the blood that soaked the woman’s tube top… and the paring knife protruding from Frankie’s throat.

  “She was evil,” Tula said to me, her back still turned. “She wanted to kill Harris and she finally did. But not his goodness. That’s what I was trying to save.”

  My mind was working fast, already anticipating the questioning the girl would have to endure. Tula Choimha needed an out. Something real. Something she had witnessed with her own eyes so she could speak honestly of it later.

  I said to Tula, “I want you to watch something. It won’t be pleasant. Later, though-when people ask you about what happened-you’ll be able to tell them honestly what you saw. Other things… things that happened earlier tonight… you’ll probably want to forget.”

  I waited until I was certain that the girl had turned to look. Then I used the paring knife on Frankie-several times-before leaving the knife just as I had found it, in her throat.

  We walked in silence then, the girl in my arms. It wasn’t until we were almost back to my truck that Tula looked up into my masked face and said, “Do you remember the goodness that was in you as a child? God’s goodness, I’m talking about.”

  I replied, “Sure. Everyone does,” because I thought it might make her feel better o
r reassure her at the very least.

  I had underestimated the Guatemalan girl’s strength, however, and her maturity. It was Tula who then provided me with a more tangible form of reassurance, saying, “That doesn’t mean warriors shouldn’t lie to protect other warriors. Joan of Arc did it many times to protect her knights. The Maiden has promised me it’s true-Dr. Ford.”

  EPILOGUE

  On the second Sunday in March, which is when daylight savings adds an hour of light to winter’s darkness, I drove my truck to the West Wind Inn, a mile from Dinkin’s Bay, and was on the beach in time to watch the sunrise.

  It was 6:43 a.m. The sun had not yet appeared above the Sanibel Lighthouse, but clouds to the west were fire laced, tinged with pink and edged with turquoise from a sky that melded blue with the green of an old morning sea.

  I had just taken possession of a custom surfboard, designed by surf icon Steve Brom and shipped from the Florida Panhandle by YOLO Boards of Santa Rosa Beach.

  It was Tomlinson who had discovered the fledgling company, perhaps charmed by the YOLO acronym: You Only Live Once.

  As my friend pointed out, the name didn’t mesh with his convictions about reincarnation or life after death, but, as he explained, “You gotta love the kick-ass spirit it represents.”

  I was unmoved until I had tried one. The next afternoon, I spoke to Brom and ordered a board specifically for my needs. After discussing what I wanted, I then provided the man with my height and weight.

  Amused, the California surf guru had told me, “I don’t expect to see you on the pro circuit anytime soon. But this might be my chance to create a board that even a gorilla could use, maybe even learn to shred.”

  Funny guy.

  The board-a stand-up paddleboard, by definition-had arrived yesterday, a Saturday, just as I had finished separating a new batch of specimens, sea horses and filefish in one tank, two dozen anemones in another. After I had unboxed the board, I had leaned it against the outside wall of my lab, then trotted down the steps to get a better view from the deck.