"I truthfully do, Les. I believe you'd take swing at me if you could."
"I'm going to do a lot more than that if this business somehow turns sour. If I get hurt in any way, I'm going to drag you right down with me."
"My word against yours, Les. But yeah, you could make it unpleasant for me. That's why I chose the smartest cop around. "
"Christ, flattery no less! The worst that can happen to me is I lose my job. But you, you'll go to prison. You can count on it. "
"I'd prefer not to go to prison, Les. Don't let me down."
Buck Bernstein sounded tired; sounded too weary to be mean. Even over the bad trans-Caribbean connection, Ford could hear the rumble of passing trucks and muted sirens. Things were getting wild in Masagua.
"Balserio's dead, man. You hear? Standing outside the palace with about ten of his Elite Guard and a bomb went off. In his briefcase. You've never seen such a mess in your life. They still haven't found all the dude's medals. Some of them probably still up there in the air, haven't hit the ground yet."
"You know who did it?"
"Nope, not officially. Between you and me, though, we think it was his own people. His two top generals have already taken control; declared martial law, got soldiers and tanks everywhere. Our people are sort of sitting back, waiting to see which of the generals we should sit down and deal with. Meantime, the guerrillas are out there like a bunch of jackals, all of them plannin' the best moment to sneak in and try to steal the prize."
"And you've got elections coming up in the fall."
"Shit, don't even mention that. Things crazy enough down here."
"What about the boy, Buck? The eight-year-old, Jake Hollins?"
"You expect miracles, you think I've had time to track the kid down, all the stuff going on now?"
"You didn't find out anything?"
"Give me a break, man. I got it maybe narrowed down a little. And you expect any more with me sittin' in the middle of a fucking war zone, you're crazy. What I did was try to find out who was dealing with the kid's dad. Figure whoever was dealing with the kid's dad probably took the kid. That make sense?"
"It's a place to start anyway."
"Two places to start, man. He was flying for two groups. This guy, this dead friend of yours, he about six-three, two forty; a big guy with brown hair and one of those dented chins?"
"Yeah, that sounds like him."
"Good. Didn't call himself Hollins. Called himself Rafferty; had a couple different passports, which is par for the course. Did some flying for your buddy Juan Rivera, the commie you got all the baseball equipment for. Hey, Ford, you really give them uniforms that said 'Masaguan People's Army' on the front? In Dodger blue?"
"That's what Rivera asked for, that's what he got."
"Then it's no damn wonder they give me your job, tell you to get your ass .out and not come back for two years. Giving shit to the fucking communists."
"What was Hollins flying for Rivera? It could be important."
"Just guns far as I can tell. And he didn't do much of that. Rivera's been around for quite a while. Likes to use his own people. Maybe some drugs, too, but that's not Rivera's style."
"He said it wasn't drugs."
"If I was a friend of yours I'd lie, too. Knowing what a sneaky shit you are."
"Who else was he flying for?"
"Probably Julio Zacul, that bad man. When that bomb killed Balserio, I figured right off it was Zacul. Sendero Luminoso, those maniacs. Shining Path. They moving up from South America faster than killer bees."
Ford said, "I know."
"Just the way Zacul'd do things, though. He likes to leave a real mess. Put all the women and children from a whole village in a church, lock the doors, and set it on fire. That's the kind of thing make him smile. But how would he get the bomb into Balserio's briefcase? No way. Had to be an insider. My sources tell me your buddy was flying in guns for Zacul. Small weaponry, grenades, shit like that. Nothing real big, and just occasional, so he wasn't high priority. Another couple of months of it, though, and the FBI woulda nailed him anyway."
"That's all he flew for Zacul? Just guns?"
"None of them carry just guns, you know that. They fly in with guns. They fly out with a money crop."
"What was the money crop?"
"Maybe drugs. But maybe something else, too. Zacul's got a thing for artifacts. You know, Mayan stuff. Carved heads, stone calendars, shit like that. Those things sell for big bucks up in the States. Zacul's always been into that. That's what my source tells me, anyway. Has his own private collection hidden out there in the jungle, and sells off the stuff he doesn't want. Has his men do the excavating. Zacul likes to use it to help play the crowd."
"What?"
"You know, when someone's around who can help him. He plays the Mayan Indian bit trying to take back his land of his ancestors. Shit, the guy's from Peru, pure Castilian far as we can find out. Not a drop of Indian blood in his body. But the act still gets him a lot of supporters up there in liberal land. Movie-actor types, like to have their pictures taken with outlaws. They put on benefits, send U.S. dollars. Makes them feel real caring, politically aware. The dumb asses."
"I don't suppose you could give me the name of the source. "
"You suppose right. Not until I get the negatives from those photos, anyway."
"Did your source tell you where Zacul and his men are camped?"
"Up in the mountains, just like your buddy Juan Rivera. Where all those bastards hide out. That's who you figure has the kid? Zacul?"
Ford said, "It seems to fit with the story the boy's father gave me."
"Then I'd write him off as dead. Zacul doesn't like you gringos, even the young ones, and he's about as crazy mean as they come."
"I still want you to try and find him."
"Me? I got all the information I could, damn it. Don't play these bullshit games with me. I'm gonna have a war to deal with here in a few months or one real nasty election, and I don't have time to run around looking for some kid who's probably already dead. You're gonna have to come down here and get him yourself."
"I'm not allowed to return to Masagua for another year, Buck. You'd have me arrested at the airport. "
"What kind of asshole do you take me for?"
"You don't really want an answer to that, do you?"
"I want those negatives, Ford."
"Then find the boy, Buck. "
ELEVEN
Ford went outside, into the darkness, down the steps to the dock that sided the shark pen. He had two boats, the eighteen-foot flats skiff and an old twenty-four-foot flat-bottomed trawl boat that he used for dragging up tunicates, seahorses, small fish, and other specimens. He had felt tradition-bound to name each of the boats, but had come up with nothing that didn't sound cutesy or egocentric. He considered Beagle II for the trawl boat; maybe W. H. Wood for the skiff, in honor of the man who landed history's first tarpon. But when the guy came to paint the names, neither name seemed right, so he had had Sanibel Biological Supply stenciled on the sterns of each, and left it at that.
With its nets and outriggers folded above, the trawl boat looked like some huge, gloomy pterodactyl as it swung experimentally on its lines in the calm night, bow tied to the dock, its stern anchored off. Ford checked the lines of the trawl boat, then stepped into his skiff, touched the trim button, and lowered the engine. He idled across the bay toward the dim shape of Tomlinson's sailboat in the distance.
Dinkin's Bay was a backwater, far off the course of normal boating traffic, so Tomlinson showed no anchorage light atop the mast, but his cabin light was on. There was music, too; weird discordant notes of a wooden flute curling out of the cabin, floating over the dark water like mist. As Ford drew closer, though, the music stopped and the silhouette of Tomlinson, wearing only shorts, appeared on the cockpit.
"Hello the boat!"
"Hey . . . Doc, that you? Hey, this is great. Come on aboard." It was beer time anyway, Tomlinson said, and it was real
nice getting company for a change, almost like Christmas sort of, and he'd just finished playing along with Shuso, playing the Japanese bamboo flute.
"Shuso?" Ford had followed Tomlinson down into the cabin of the sailboat and took a seat on the settee berth. There were neat rows of books, brass gauges on the bulkhead, and the cabin smelled of damp wood and coffee and diesel fuel.
Tomlinson rummaged through the ice locker, found two bottles of Steinlager, then slid in behind the dinette table. "The Zen Buddhist, Shuso. You never heard of him?" Like he might have been talking about Boston leftfielder Mike Greenwell or Brian Wilson. "Started his own Zen sect. Uses the traditional hotchiku, a plain bamboo flute, to express the true feeling of Zen, like haiku; you know, poetry."
"Ah," said Ford. "That Shuso."
"Right. Trouble is, Shuso never found a suitable student to carry on his form of Zen. No one willing to dedicate their life to the hotchiku. It's been pretty sad. Makes him kind of a tragic figure, really. " He handed Ford the flute he had been playing—a long unvarnished length of bamboo with twelve neatly awled holes. "Figure I might take a little trip to Japan, maybe in the fall, pop in on this great man and surprise him. Let him know I'm on the trail; see if we have something karmic going. I have a feeling I'm just the guy he's looking for. Shuso's getting pretty old. He could kick off at any minute, you know. "
Ford tasted his beer; really good beer, from New Zealand. "No, I didn't know. But it's kind of coincidental you should mention travel—"
"No offense, Doc, but I don't happen to believe in coincidence." Tomlinson had accepted the flute back and was touching the holes dreamily, playing it in his mind. "Everything that has happened, everything that will happen, it all exists in this single moment, endlessly surfacing and submerging; natural order, perfect law. The word coincidence is an invention that defines
our own confusion better than it describes a unique occurrence."
"Oh," said Ford. He believed in coincidence and he believed in confusion; had had too much experience with each not to believe, but he hadn't come to argue philosophy. "Well, anyway, traveling, that's what I came to talk about. The son of a friend of mine is in trouble. Down in Central America; Masagua. He's been kidnapped by smugglers, probably revolutionary guerrillas, a group called the Shining Path. I'm leaving tomorrow to try and get him out."
Tomlinson looked at him for a moment. "You're not joking about this, are you?"
Ford said, "Nope."
"Sounds dangerous, man. The Shining Path, I've read about those people. But I thought they were in Peru."
"Peru, then Colombia, now putting down roots in Central America. My friend is dead and there's no one else to help his son, so I feel like it's sort of an obligation. The kid's only eight years old."
"Right! For sure, man; you gotta do it. The grand gesture: one brave man walking into the Valley of the Shadow—hell, no other choice for a moraled human. Fuckin' A." Tomlinson finished his beer, then hurried to the ice locker to get another, ducking beneath the low bulkhead. "You're probably going to be killed, huh?"
Ford said, "If I thought that, I wouldn't go."
"All by yourself, trying to steal a little boy away from a bunch of zapped-out Maoists who'd boil babies just for a change in menu."
"You're not making this any easier, Tomlinson."
"Huh? What? How do you mean."
"My friend called me just before he died to ask me to help get his son out. He said he needed at least two men to make it work. He was right. To free the boy, it's going to take at least two guys. To make some kind of exchange, or set up some kind of diversion. I won't know how to work it until I get there."
Tomlinson said, "Yeah?"
Impatiently Ford said, "So?"
Finally the light dawned. "Me? You're asking me to go?"
"Yes," said Ford. "I am. You said you're interested in the Mayan culture, well, this trip should take you right through the heart of it."
"Goddamn, I'm flattered. I really am!" Tomlinson was beaming. "This is the first time anyone's ever trusted me to do something important!"
Ford didn't like the sound of that, but he said, "It may be dangerous."
"For a little kidnapped kid? Hell, I don't care."
"Illegal, too. I don't want anyone to know we're in the country, so that means sneaking in. Usually it can be done with a bribe, but if we get the wrong official it could be trouble. I just want you to know what you're getting yourself into."
"Trouble? You call that trouble?" Tomlinson's head was bobbing up and down, excited. "Misplaced papers, bad I.D.'s, sitting in tiny rooms while guys in uniforms rant and rave about insufficient data—that's been my fucking life, man. That's no trouble. It's like old home week to me."
"Just so long as you know—"
"I wouldn't miss it! Don't you see all the little karmic links? Me looking at those sharks of yours, asking one dumb question, but exactly the right question. Getting interested in Mayan history, doing all this research. It's like Lachesis and Clotho drew us a personal road map to the future; Kismet City, man."
Ford didn't know who Lachesis and Clotho were and wasn't about to ask. Tomlinson said, "You are officially absolved of any responsibility, as of this moment. No shit." Said like a holy proclamation.
"You're certain?"
Tomlinson crossed his heart. "Scout's honor. When do we leave?"
Ford hadn't even made the reservations yet. "Tomorrow; I'm not sure what time. I'll call and find out tonight, then stop over in the morning. We might be gone for a while; keep that in mind. Maybe a week, maybe three."
"Hell, three weeks or three months, I still only got two pairs of pants."
That was good. Ford liked traveling with people who packed light.
He left Tomlinson's, jumping his skiff to plane, and ran through the darkness across the flats, picking up the canted wooden posts marking the channel that funneled to the mouth of the bay. Pelicans and cormorants flushed in mass off the rookery islands as Ford slid past, gray shapes ascending through the light of a waxing moon. Jessica's house seemed even smaller in darkness, its windows aglow within the shadows of the casuarina pines, and Ford could hear music coming through the screened door as he tied off his skiff. People singing in Italian, a tenor crying to a lofty soprano; some kind of opera.
"Anybody home?" Ford could see Jessica working in the next room. Concentrating before the easel, chewing at the end of her brush, she wore jeans and dark blue T-shirt, hair woven in a tight braid down to the middle of her back. "HELLO?"
She started, turned and focused, then smiled. "Hey, get in here. I'm pissed at you," talking as if she were kidding, but with an edge to her voice, as she found the stereo and turned down the music, then came and gave Ford a strong hug but no kiss. "You could have at least stopped this afternoon and said hello. Or asked me to go out collecting with you."
Ford said, "I thought you would be packing."
"Right. I throw a few things into a bag, and I'm packed. A New York auction doesn't require a fashion statement. And I'm only going to be gone a few days." She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek, then let it fall as if sensing his mood. "Hey, what's going on here, Ford? You mad about something?"
Ford followed her across the room as she motioned for him to join her, saying "I came to say good-bye" as they sat on the couch.
"I wish I didn't have to go."
"Me, too. I'm leaving for Masagua tomorrow. I'm going to try and get my friend's son back."
She said, "Oh," not liking the sound of it, and began to pick at the paint that stained her fingers, not looking at him. "Why do you have to do it? Why can't you just call the police and let them take care of it?"
"We already talked about that."
"I don't want you getting involved in all this. I was hoping you were upset about what happened Saturday night."
"About us being together? Why would I be upset about that?"
"Not us." She turned, studying his eyes. "I mean you and the woman who stay
ed with you. The blond woman. After you left me."
That was a surprise, and Ford didn't try to hide it. "News travels fast around this bay. "
Jessica said, "No, I was out for a ride on my bike yesterday morning and saw her leaving. Very pretty, Ford. I hoped that's why you felt bad." When Ford did not respond, she asked: "Do you?"
"No."
"Would you have told me?"
"Not unless you asked."
"Are you in love with her?"
"No."
She said, "Oh. Well, I guess we didn't make any commitments, did we." Getting icier and icier.
"No, we didn't."
"I don't want to be a bitch about this, Ford. I'm no priss. But it hurt. I thought Saturday was special." She had been sitting close to him, her shoulder touching his, but now she moved it away.
"It was very nice."
Jessica said, "Well, at least we've always been honest with each other."
And Ford said quickly, "Have we?" holding her eyes until she finally looked away.
She said, "I don't think this is a good night for either one of us. Maybe we should talk about it when we get back."
Ford said, "Just one question: That marketing firm you worked for in New York—are you still associated with those people?"
In a small voice, she said, "No."
"But your friend Benny is, isn't he? Benjamin Rouchard; one of the stockholders."
"You checked up on me, too, huh? Did I pass? Or is this just midterm?"
Ford didn't react to the anger in that. "I came out to tell you it's a bad time to be involved with them, that's all. I'm not prying. I don't want you to get hurt."
She was quiet for a moment, as if allowing the anger to fade. "I'd rather not go into something when neither of us has a lot of time. It would be one thing if you could stay the night—" Throwing that out like an invitation. When Ford made no move to accept, she added, "But you won't, will you?"
Ford said. "I haven't even made reservations yet. And I have to pack. "
"Then I'll walk you to your boat," as if calling his bluff, and Ford followed her out of the house. But at the dock she stopped him once more. "Doc?"
Sanibel Flats Page 16
