“Please wait here. Someone will be with you shortly,” the young woman said pertly.
When she had closed the door, Emmett said, “Wow. What a welcoming party.”
Larry walked to the window and checked the parking lot below. He made another call.
“Back lot,” he said and flipped his phone shut.
“You’re devious,” Emmett said.
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“I owe you.”
“Don’t owe me yet. We could just piss them off and make things worse.”
“So what? They haven’t done anything for me but give me grief. How much worse can it get?”
The door opened and four men in dark suits entered. They formally shook hands and took up positions on the opposite side of the table from Emmett and Larry. Oddly, each casually introduced himself, almost warmly, as if they were old friends, perhaps as a way of catching them off guard. Emmett felt a flare of anger. So these were the gatekeepers to his daughter’s life. Their smug self-assurance rankled his nerves. He felt the sudden urge to jump across the table and pummel the smirks from their faces. He clutched his fists in his lap.
“Where’s Tacket?” Larry asked, snapping his ink pen impatiently on his legal pad. Tacket was the lawyer Larry had agreed to let run the mediation. He was someone Larry only vaguely knew, but felt okay about.
“I understand he’s in the building,” one of the suits said.
The door opened and Tacket entered. He shook hands all around, then took up his position at the head of the table. After a quick review of the case, the mediator asked Larry to state his position.
Larry wasted no time in laying out his demands that Common Good pay the full amount required under the contract, which was valid at the time of the original diagnosis. There was hemming and hawing on the other side as they began, but Larry cut them off.
“A child is dying. We’re tired of your delay tactics. I’d like to invite you gentlemen over to the window. There’s something you need to see.”
They moved to the window without a word. A freshly logoed CNN van gleamed in the parking lot below. Shock flickered across their faces, but quickly an impassive, almost disinterested look returned.
Larry flipped open his phone. The van door slid to the side and a couple of guys spilled out. One held a camera. The other grabbed a phone from his back pocket.
“Up here. Third floor,” Larry said. “Say hey.”
The khaki-clad man with the CNN cap and sunglasses looked up and waved in their direction.
“That’s my friend, Mike,” Larry said to the suits. “We went to college together. Would you like to go down and have a little talk?”
“That won’t be necessary,” the one with the darkest suit said. “We get your point.”
“So,” Larry said, “here’s the deal.”
Larry told them they were going to pay everything contractually covered by the insurance policy and for a full checkup at Duke and would provide coverage for any medical expenses and drugs for any subsequent diagnosis from that visit. Larry relayed the moving story of how their small community had raised more than $13,000 to help keep the family afloat.
“Of course,” Larry continued, “we would have no problems generating a good-sized letter-writing campaign, not only to your board members, but on the Internet and to newspapers, about how this child needs help because Common Good won’t pay.”
Larry held up a photo of Ainslie.
“She’s a cute kid,” he said. “And pretty articulate, too. People will just love her.”
He held up a second photo. Ainslie was scrawny, her hair scraggly and sparse. There were tubes running out of her chest and she was even paler than the hospital bed sheets.
“Then of course, there’s this image and the question of how much damage was done because of delayed treatment while waiting for approval.”
“You can’t prove that,” one of the shirts barked.
“I don’t have to prove anything. This isn’t a criminal trial. What we can do is make it a court of public opinion. Human interest stories are always an easy sell.”
The Common Good representatives requested that Larry and Emmett wait in the hall. The mediator stayed in the room. Ten minutes later, the door opened and the suits strode away as if their minds were already on other, more important matters. They never turned their way nor raised a hand in acknowledgment. Back in the boardroom, the mediator told them Common Good had agreed to their demands and that papers to that effect would be drawn up immediately.
“You rattled their cage,” he said with a wink that showed he was anything but impartial. “I’ll see you get the appropriate papers on Monday.”
CHAPTER 30
Baby Steps
Sloan rubbed sleep from her eyes as she waited for her computer’s next response. She’d typed Verulo Moreno into a search engine. The computer screen flickered and a list came up. She scrolled down, but found nothing pertinent. She Googled Verulo. Still, nothing of any consequence. An hour later she had checked student listings at the University of Miami going back five years and there was no sign of him. She’d done every free online people search she could find, but still she came up empty—no Miami address, no telephone number. It was as if he didn’t exist.
And why would he leave an information trail? Verulo was probably not his name. Criminals never give their real names. Maybe the University of Miami was a euphemism, a coy reference to where he got his real education. His UM shirts and board shorts were probably just his college kid cover. He could be thirty years old for all they knew.
The soft breezes of spring curled in the open window of her room. Her parents had informed the girls they wouldn’t be turning on the air conditioner until midsummer. Her father had repaired a few ragged screens but had finally given up. Screens were unnecessary anyway. Mosquitoes never crossed the creek, one of the reasons people had always flocked to the windy barrier islands in the heat of summer.
Sloan typed in “Mexican drug gangs” and a list of articles popped up. She found an article on express kidnapping. Apparently Mexican gangsters held people for a few days or a week while they maxed out the victims’ credit cards and emptied bank accounts. Sloan thought of how they had innocently followed Verulo into the jungle to zip-line that day, and a little tingle of dread crawled her arms. She shook it off and continued to read. Hijacking and freight theft were also apparently major problems on Mexico’s vast and sparsely patrolled network of roads.
Sloan remembered the rumors when they were in Cancún about heads washing up on beaches, so she added a plus sign to her search bar and typed in “severed heads.”
The first article she opened was about Mexican drug wars, where organized crime rings fought each other for dominance and territory. The article was a B-movie account of rival drug gangs colliding at a disco where men dressed in black stormed into a crowded discotheque and rolled five heads onto the dance floor. A note attached to one read that they didn’t kill women or children or innocents, only those who deserved to die.
Sloan went to the history bar of her computer and deleted her searches on Mexico. She had made her decision. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with Cal’s big plan. In fact, if this was the type of thing Cal intended to do, she’d need to extricate herself from him as well. That would be hard. Cal was persuasive. Cal was attractive. Sloan didn’t want to break up with him. She only wanted him to stop this crazy scheme. She’d heard the characteristics that attracted you to somebody could end up being the very things that caused you to eventually break up. Cal was so exciting, but this was too much excitement. This was dangerous.
In her closet, Sloan found the shoebox of remaining money she had earned from their Miami trip, just over $900. She stuck a few bills in her pocket and the rest in a manila envelope. She wrote For the Sullivan Family on the outside. She would have to decide the perfect way to leave it for her mother to find. She crammed it into her backpack alongside pencils, oil pastels, and
sketchpad.
“Ains, you ready?” she yelled to her sister in the next room.
It was June and the day grew warm quickly. The entry drive at Brookgreen was lush, flowers already thick, birds crazed with desire swooping through the trees. Sloan parked in a handicap space, clipped the handicap pass on her rearview, and got out to wrestle her sister’s wheelchair from the back.
“I don’t need that stupid thing,” Ainslie complained.
“Just get in,” Sloan said. “It was hard enough to get Mom to let me bring you. She made me promise, so just get in.”
Sloan was glad to hear her sister complain. Since the day of the storm Ainslie had lost her spark. She’d stopped fighting. She would lie for hours in the same position in bed, the television on her favorite channel, but Ainslie wasn’t watching. She no longer insisted everybody in the family share her programs. She didn’t play video games or want to talk on the phone anymore. One by one her school friends had dropped away. Now Ainslie spent hours staring at the television, out her window, at the new fish tank in her room.
Ainslie took a few cautious steps and lowered herself into the rolling contraption. A recent checkup had pronounced her to be in remission, but their mother didn’t take that as a good sign like most people would. Sloan had heard her mother worry that the doctors were simply writing Ainslie off because of mounting bills. Their father said to have more faith than that. Their mother said her faith was all used up. She said she wanted to send Ainslie to Duke University for a second opinion before she would believe everything was truly okay.
“Here we go,” Sloan said. “Where’s the ramp?”
Sloan found the concrete incline and rolled her sister up.
“Hey, want to go in the gift shop?” Sloan said.
“I don’t have any money.”
“It’s your birthday. I’ve got money. My treat.”
Ainslie shrugged. Usually she would have jumped at the chance to buy a beaded necklace or a book on animals. Inside the store Ainslie showed little enthusiasm.
“Here, try these on,” Sloan said and held a pair of dragonfly earrings next to Ainslie’s face. “These are cool. You like?”
“They’re okay, I guess.”
“Oh, come on Ainslie. We’re out having fun. Buck up.”
“I don’t want any earrings until all my hair grows back.”
“Okay. What about a hat then?” Ainslie’s hair was growing back in unruly patches around the incision site. Pale scalp showed through a fuzz of dark hair. Sloan had drawn another animal on the other side of her sister’s head, but it was fading.
“I have a hat. Let’s just go,” Ainslie said.
“Did you put on sunscreen like Mom said? You know you’ll burn easy.”
“YesIputonsuncreenlikeMomsaid.”
“Okay. Okay.”
At least Ainslie’s thoughts and speech seemed to have returned to normal. But Sloan was still waiting for that curious little nature lover to appear again.
She pushed her sister through the gardens, past the frog fountain, where they stopped to watch water bugs slice across the surface. Through the allée of live oaks and back to their private corner. Lizards ducked for cover at their approach. Sloan pushed her sister’s chair against a plant growing from one side of the black fountain. Ainslie eyed a couple of gray-green lizards too groggy from sunning to be alarmed. Usually Ainslie would have grabbed a couple of the slower ones, but not today.
“I’m going to go over there and sketch,” Sloan said, pointing to the millstone.
Ainslie didn’t reply.
Sloan settled in and pulled out her pad, intent on polishing a piece she hadn’t completed on her last visit. But when she started, her fingers wouldn’t make a decision about what to do. Often she became removed from herself while creating, and without thinking she would draw for an hour and suddenly wake up to a finished drawing or sculpture. But today, her hand was stalled. She turned the page to a clean sheet. Suddenly her hand was moving rapidly over the paper, her pencil scratching lightly. Sloan was barely aware of what she was drawing, and when she finished she was shaken by what she’d done. Staring at her from the page was the wide face of Verulo. This likeness had flaws, but she had captured his essence, his high cheekbones and close-cropped hair. She could see him perfectly in her mind, as if he were a photograph in a book. The only thing she couldn’t remember about him was his eyes, so she had covered them with his aviators. She considered his image. Who are you? Where are you right now?
Blondie sang from her bag. As she was digging for her phone she glanced at Ainslie, and her sister wrinkled her nose in disapproval. Ainslie was the only one in her family who wasn’t sold on Cal. Sloan hadn’t asked her why, but she assumed it was because she had been spending so much time with him, time Ainslie saw as her time. Cal brought Ainslie gifts that she promptly gave away or threw in the trash.
Sloan couldn’t find her phone and, frustrated, she emptied her bag onto the ground and picked the singing machine from the pile.
“Hey,” she said into her phone. Ainslie was still looking at her as she crammed everything back into her bag.
“Hey yourself,” he said. “Where are you?”
“By the black fountain.”
“In the back corner?”
“Yes.”
“I’m pulling into the parking lot.”
“See you in a minute.” Sloan snapped her phone shut.
“I can’t believe you invited him.”
“Get over it.”
“Why did he have to come?”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“He’s bossy. He always tells you what to do.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Ainslie turned away and reached to rake a sunning lizard onto her lap.
Within minutes Cal rounded the hedge into their world.
“Hey, Ainslie,” Cal sang. “What’s up, dog?”
“I’m not a dog.”
“Yes, you are. You’re just a little shih tzu.” Cal didn’t seem to notice Ainslie’s glare. He sauntered over to Sloan and she closed her sketchpad on her drawing of Verulo before he leaned in for a kiss.
“Not in front of her,” Sloan said.
“That’s cool. Let’s talk.” Cal gently pulled her to her feet. “Let’s take a little walk. She’s okay here by herself for a while, right?”
“Ainslie, we’re going for a walk, okay? We’ll be right back.”
Ainslie didn’t answer, although Sloan knew she had heard her.
“I can’t go far,” she said to Cal.
When they were out of Ainslie’s line of vision, Sloan said, “Hey, I heard your mom had to take a little trip. Is everything okay?”
Cal grinned. “Oh, you mean has my mom gone to rehab? That would be a yes.”
“So she’s okay?”
“Sure. Every couple of years she goes out west to dry out. Stays until the insurance runs out. Comes back and is fine for another couple of years. How’d you find out?”
“Doesn’t matter. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Cal shrugged. “I’m used to it.” He changed the subject quickly as if his mother didn’t matter. “Anyway, everything’s on. We’re doing the drop tomorrow night.”
“What? No. Why the rush?”
“I don’t know. Apparently there was already a shipment on the way and their drop location got compromised.”
“Cal, I did some research on the Web. There’s no Verulo Moreno in Miami, or anywhere else for that matter. He gave you a bogus name.”
“So?”
“So he knows us, but we don’t know who he is. And he didn’t want to have his photo taken that day when we were going on the zip-line. Remember? He practically ripped Ethan’s cell phone out of his hand so he could take our photo and stay out of the shot himself.”
“I repeat. So?”
Sloan paused, wondering if he was being intentionally dense. “Think about it,” she said. “There’s all kinds of drug-rel
ated murders going on down in Mexico. You don’t know this guy. What if he’s part of those drug-ring people?”
“You have a vivid imagination. And you worry too much. People do this shit all the time. Don’t you know how much cocaine there is around this town?”
“No, I don’t. I mean, I didn’t until I met you.”
“I’ve got this under control. Don’t go all crazy on me. Besides, you need the money. You’ve got to get your shit together for school.”
“Dad’s working things out with the insurance company. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“And you believe that?”
“If Dad says they’re going to pay us, then I believe him. I have to believe him.”
“Whatever.”
“Cal, don’t say whatever. Look, you and Ronald go do your thing, but I’m out.”
He reached up to run a hand through her hair. “Baby, we’re a team. It’s just one little boat ride and then we split the cash and voilà, we’re rich.”
“I said no. I’m not doing it.”
He spread his fingers over her scalp and pulled her toward him. She thought he was going to kiss her and she was confused. He wound his fingers through her hair, massaging hard until she tried to push away. Her struggle made him grab a handful of hair and pull her head back.
His breath suffocated her. “Sloan, you’re my girl. I need to know you’re with me. You can’t go against me.”
“I’m not against you,” she whimpered. “Stop. Please.”
“You’re not going to tell anybody, are you? If I thought you were going to fuck this thing up for me I’d be really upset.”
His heartbeat vibrated into her scalp through his fingertips. Then suddenly, as if he had come to his senses, he released her.
She stumbled backward, stunned. She had to get away from him. She ran to where her satchel lay and started stuffing her art supplies in. She fumbled, and the bag spilled to the ground and he was there in an instant helping her.
The Ocean Inside Page 20
