Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  "Yeah, Jess?"

  "Doc. . . ." She held the end of her braided hair in one hand, fidgeting with it, not looking at him. "Doc, why do you come out here? Why did you like seeing me—before Saturday night, I mean?"

  "Companionship, I guess. We have fun together."

  "I know, but what else?"

  Ford thought for a moment and then tried to answer as honestly as he could. "I like the way you look; I like the way your mind works. I like coming into your house at night when you're playing classical music, and you have candles burning. It's nice."

  She smiled slightly, still not looking at him. "Doc, when we were together I almost told you that I was falling in love with you."

  Ford waited, saying nothing, then touched his finger to her chin, tilting her head. He kissed her gently, held her in his arms for a moment, then stepped onto his skiff, immediately disturbed by the sense of relief he felt, the feeling of freedom that small distancing created in him: her on the dock, him behind the wheel, already touching the key. He said, "Be careful in New York, Jessi."

  Ford and Tomlinson caught a commuter flight from Fort Myers to Miami, then flew LACSA into San Jose, the course taking them in just close enough to the Mosquito Coast so that Ford could see the dark haze of what was probably the eastern shore of Masagua. His cheek against the cool Plexiglas window, Ford played the child's game of wishing he had superpowers, X-ray vision, so he could peer through the miles and find a frightened little boy . . . and Pilar Balserio, too.

  Then they were dropping down through the clouds to see this great glittering city surrounded by mountains; a city that, from fifteen thousand feet, looked a little bit like Atlanta, but without the Yuppie housing. Ford began to pick out the familiar landmarks of San Jose: the National Theatre, the lines of cars on Calle Central, all the nice parks looking cool and green in the clear mountain air. Then the plane jolted, tires screeched, and, to the roar of reverse thrust, the hundred or so people aboard, most of them slightly tipsy with all the complimentary wine, settled a little as their sphincter muscles relaxed, the cheerful mood of traveling replaced by the communal awareness of survival, and they applauded the good landing.

  "I didn't expect this, man, no way." Tomlinson was looking out the window at the city, a little wide-eyed. "I thought it would be like a grass runway. You know, with cows and stuff running to get the hell out of the way of the plane." It was one of the few observations Tomlinson had made during the entire two hours, which was a relief to Ford. No chattering, and that was good, too.

  "Plenty of grass runways around. We may see a couple before we're done."

  "Far out. I'm for it."

  Then they were off the plane, each with his carry-on bag, their only pieces of luggage: Tomlinson looking taller in his faded jeans and T-shirt, a canvas backpack swung over one shoulder, standing in line with all the shorter Costa Ricans. Ford had ticketed them under the names of Johnson and Smith. Then, on a different airline, had booked himself into Guatemala City two days later and under his own name: a flight he would not take, but that might fool someone watching the reservation list. Bernstein, for instance. He had arranged for Jeth and MacKinley to share the responsibility of feeding his animals, and mailed the data search materials to Les Durell and Henry Melinski. Into each envelope, he had added a typed, unsigned note that read:

  I believe that a person or persons with the Everglades County Sheriff's Department, working with members of Sealife Development, have been involved in a smuggling operation. In this operation, munitions and weaponry obtained through the auspices of the Sheriff's Department are being sold for cash or traded for valuable pre-Columbian artifacts to a guerrilla army in Masagua, Central America.

  At the immigration desk, Ford presented a bogus passport, Tomlinson his real passport. Both were passed without question.

  Outside the terminal, the air was cool; bruised clouds shrouded the volcanic mountains: rainy season in Central America. Tomlinson said it felt like Colorado, only no SAVE ASPEN, SKI VAIL bumper stickers and no BMWs. "Really weird, man." They took a cab to a garage on the west side of San Jose where Ford rented a Toyota Land Cruiser, then drove into the heart of the city, through the wild fast traffic on Calle Central, past the modern skyscrapers and neat tiendas. The sidewalks were crowded—crowded with pretty secretaries and with men who looked like they'd just come in from herding cattle, with school kids in clean uniforms; everyone rushing, but smiling, too. On street corners were fruit carts, the smell of sliced mangoes and pineapples mixing with mountain air and the bakery smell of San Jose in the late afternoon.

  "Great," Tomlinson kept saying. "I love it." Looking out the car window, really enjoying it.

  They got two rooms at a small hotel downtown, the Balmoral, and just as Ford was about to get in the shower, Tomlinson knocked on the door and poked his head in. "What we do now, boss?"

  Ford said. "We get some sleep. Tomorrow morning we head out early, north to Masagua."

  "Do you have a plan yet?"

  "I wish I did, but I don't. Sorry."

  Tomlinson stepped into the room, slouched into a chair. "Just gonna kind of wait for things to happen. That's cool. But you said something about an exchange, right?"

  "Yeah, it's one possibility. The boy's father took something from the guerrillas. They want it back. Maybe we can work out a trade."

  "You have what the kid's father took?"

  Ford threw his backpack onto the bed and took out the small cloth bag, scattering the emeralds and jade carvings onto the bedspread. "I hope this is what he took."

  Tomlinson whistled softly. "Man, these things are beautiful." Holding the small green owl, then the parrot under the light, touching the stones to his cheek, appreciating the smoothness as a child might. "And these are emeralds, right? They gotta be." He was peering into one, as if gazing into a microscope.. "These things gotta be worth a fortune. I've never seen stones as big as—" But then he stopped talking as his eyes widened, a light going on. "Hey! Like the story I was telling you about the Kache and the Tlaxclen—the stone star chart that used emeralds to mark the constellations. These dudes could have found it!"

  Ford was nodding. "Let's hope so. "

  "Why?"

  "Because it tells me where they probably are: the lake, remember? On the Pacific Coast."

  "Right. Hey, maybe they found some of the other stuff, too; pieces of the temple. Man, no wonder they want this stuff back. "

  Ford said, "That's what we're counting on. See, once we locate the guerrilla group, I figure our best bet is to stay in the nearest town and send a messenger into the hills. Tell them they can have the artifacts if they bring us the boy. Do everything right out in the open, in view of the public. That would provide the only safety factor we're going to get."

  "Sounds simple enough."

  "Yeah, but what if the boy's already dead? They're going to want the stuff anyway, and they're going to come looking for us. "

  "Oh yeah, right."

  "Or what if they take a look at what we have and tell us it's not all there? Maybe they expected more."

  "More? Your friend had other stuff, too?"

  Ford sat looking at Tomlinson, wondering if he should tell him everything he knew, everything he suspected. The computer check had said he was clean, but Ford decided not to risk it, to keep things compartmentalized for now. Besides, wasn't it possible that Sally Field, the friendly D.C. secretary, had been asked to help set him up? It wasn't the first time Ford had considered that possibility. With her, work always came first— she'd said as much more than once.

  Christ, now you're becoming paranoid.

  Ford said, "I don't know, Tomlinson. We're just going to have to take it as it comes. Remember: We've got karma on our side," smiling, trying to humor him.

  Tomlinson said, "Right. Right."

  Ford read until 10 P.M. He'd heard Tomlinson go out just after nine and now he rose, slipped the latch on the door, and found Tomlinson's backpack beneath the bed. He went through it c
arefully, but all he found of interest was a passport that showed the man had traveled in Europe and Japan. There were no entry stamps from South America or Central America, but that meant nothing. The passport could have been faked, or he could have a second or a third passport back on his boat. Or in a safety deposit box in Boston. Or D.C. Duplicates were easy enough to get.

  Ford returned to his own room, changed into fresh cotton slacks and a blue chambray shirt, then left his room key with the desk clerk.

  He had a ten-thirty appointment with Rigaberto Herrera, a former CIA operative and longtime friend, at a bar called the Garden of Eden. He'd made the appointment from Florida the night before, giving Rigaberto a list of things he would need. They had spoken again by phone after Ford's arrival.

  The Garden of Eden was a big white aristocratic house— gables, verandas, and wrought-iron fences—built on its own grounds at a time when San Jose was still a small colonial town. The city had grown up around it. The house had been converted into a garden restaurant with a dance floor inside and a funky little bar, but mostly it was a whorehouse, the classiest in San Jose. One of the names Ford had found in Rafe Hollins's address book was Wendy Stafford. According to Bernstein, Stafford now worked at the Garden of Eden—which didn't surprise Ford. He had known the woman years ago. They'd slept together a couple of times, back when she was a Peace Corps volunteer, a rich American girl with an itch to help the less fortunate, ripe with guilt and eager to make restitution, but who somehow seemed destined to be swallowed up by the very darkness from which she wished to wrest others. Ford had met many Wendy Staffords in his travels: American princesses who sought out the jungle on a lark, but who soon found themselves entangled beyond any hope of escaping.

  He walked past the American Embassy where he had worked for a short time, up the calle, through the little park, and there was the house, the Garden of Eden, with pale lights in the windows and trees throwing shadows. The doorman nodded at him, then he was inside, feeling the eyes of the women on him. Costa Rica produced some of the most beautiful women in the world, and the Garden of Eden offered the most beautiful women in Costa Rica: girls in their late teens and early twenties with long black hair and dark, dark eyes; girls who, back in the States, would be film actresses or models, but here were dressed in bright dresses or tight jeans and blouses, working their way out of poverty and enjoying it, judging by the smiles on their faces. But Ford had always been skeptical of those smiles. During the six months he worked in San Jose, he had become friendly with a couple of the girls. Though he sometimes paid them, he never slept with them—not that it would have been an indignity to him. He had slept with women of far lower moral fabric who were of supposedly much higher social stature— women who were whores by nature, not by occupation. He had never slept with a girl from the Garden because, Ford told himself, he didn't want to add to the desperation that he guessed was the framework of those smiles. Pure egotism on his part, as if he could make some slight difference.

  It was Tuesday night, a slow night, and most of the tables were empty. The three-piece jazz band played "Satin Doll" while, overhead, ceiling fans stirred the tumid air. Several of the girls at the bar tried to catch his eye, clinking the ice in their glasses. Another girl stood alone on the dance floor, a particularly striking brunette, swaying softly to the music. She smiled at Ford, a sleepy smile, and beckoned with an index finger, wanting him to join her. He shook his head slightly, then walked across the room to the veranda, and there was Rigaberto, a five-foot six-inch hulk in sports jacket and tie, sitting beneath a tree at a white wrought-iron table.

  "Am I late?" Smiling at his old friend, then joking about his weight and the gray in his black hair and mustache, joking about him sitting alone in a house full of women.

  "You are laughing, but my wife was not laughing when I told her I was coming to this place. Out in the jungle, out with the guerrillas, that would be all right. But not a whorehouse. She fears more for my morals than my life. Would you like something? A beer, perhaps."

  The waitress brought Ford a Tropical, good Costa Rican beer in a dark bottle, and Ford said in Spanish, "Is the woman here? I did not see her when I came in." Liking the dignified tone his formal construction of the language added.

  Herrera had already checked. "She's working tables out in the garden. As a waitress. It is something that the older girls do. They do not stay so busy with men."

  "Did she recognize you?"

  "Why would she recognize me? It was you she knew. But I am not so sure you will recognize her. To such a woman, the years are not kind. Would it matter so much if she saw me?"

  Ford said, "No. I just don't want to frighten her. It is important that I speak with her."

  "Concerning the little boy you seek?"

  "Yes. Several years ago the boy's father was in Costa Rica looking for work. He asked me for some names, and hers was one of the names I gave him. At that time she had certain connections, and I thought she might help."

  Herrera looked at the glass of beer he had hardly touched. "Yes, she had connections. At that time."

  Ford said, "Shall we go to the garden and order a meal?"

  The Costa Rican shook his head wryly. "At this moment my three beautiful little daughters are asleep and my wife is sitting in the bed, watching the clock." He shrugged. "Women, they do not understand a matter between friends. But I will stay long enough to finish my beer and make certain I have brought all the things you requested." He put a leather briefcase on the table. "The photographs were not so easy to get; especially the photographs of Julio Zacul. They were taken several years ago, when he was a student at the university. I enclosed one each of the other three important guerrilla leaders, including Juan Rivera. But you know him, of course."

  "Yes," said Ford. "If Rivera has the boy, there should be no problem. Other than getting into his camp. But I doubt if he has him. I suspect it is Zacul."

  "That is too bad. I have heard stories about him."

  "As have I."

  Herrera said, "Getting the passports and the working visas, of course, was not difficult. You must paste in your own passport photographs, but I have included the yellow masking. It is a plastic film you must strip away and stick over the inside jacket."

  Ford said, "I am familiar with it," as he opened the briefcase, then he looked up quickly. "Rigaberto, there is a gun in here. I asked only for a knife."

  Herrera was smiling. "I am relieved that you know the difference. It is a forty-five-caliber automatic; a Browning. I've included a box of cartridges and two clips. Each clip holds seven rounds. There is, of course, a knife, too. A military knife with a hollow handle that holds fishing line and such things."

  "You are very thoughtful, Rigaberto, but I don't think I'll need a weapon. I hope not, anyway. Besides, one pistol against the guerrillas who have the boy—"

  "It was not the guerrillas I was thinking about when I decided to give you the gun, old friend. It was because of the man who travels with you. I did not like what you told me about him. I checked as best I could with the people I know here, and, while it is true none of them knew of this man, it all sounds very suspicious."

  "Yes," said Ford. "That is why I asked him to come along."

  "I do not understand, but if it is a confidence you do not wish to share—"

  Ford said, "It is possible there are people in my government who think I stole a certain artifact from the Presidential Palace in Masagua. It is possible they sent this man to find out if I was involved. But since I spoke with you, I was told by a good source that the man is a civilian."

  "Plus you were not involved."

  "Of course not."

  "It is important, this artifact?"

  "In the proper hands, it is the one thing that might help unite the people of Masagua."

  "Then it is very important, indeed. And is this artifact still in the proper hands?"

  "It was when I left Masagua. Now I am not so sure."

  "Then that makes me worry all t
he more for your safety. For such a thing, one life means nothing." Herrera's dark eyes became cold. "If you like, I will return to my home and call another friend of mine—Rudolpho Romero, the middle-weight fighter who once fought in Madison Square Garden. Rudolpho and I will visit this man who travels with you. In a very short time we will know exactly what his intentions are. My wife would understand a thing such as that. She would not mind."

  Ford said, "No. I'll find out in my own fashion."

  "I do not think it is wise entering Masagua with a man you cannot trust. Forgive me, old friend. You are intelligent in many ways, but there are other ways in which you are not so learned. I think Rudolpho and I should have a discussion with this man. "

  "I'm not so sure you would learn anything, even if he has been sent after me. He is very smart. Perhaps he is very shrewd, too."

  "Rudolpho's fists are wiser than the wisest. And I suppose this superman is bigger and stronger than you, too?"

  "No, but smarter, perhaps. In ways."

  "Then do this for me: Find out his intentions before you get to Masagua. Afterward it may be too late."

  Ford said, "I will. I'm not looking forward to it, but I will."

  Herrera stood abruptly and held out a big hand. "Then I will wish you luck with the lost child you seek and the artifact you did not steal. And remind you that you need only call for help, from anywhere in Costa Rica or Masagua, and I will come. I am not one to forget the kindness of old friends." He smiled. "But, next time, let it be in the jungle. Not a whorehouse."

  Ford saw Wendy Stafford stiffen as he walked into the Garden's dining area, a cobblestone patio with trees and Japanese lanterns, and took the table recently cleared by her. She vanished for a time and he began to wonder if she would send another waitress, but then she reappeared. She wore jeans and a white apron over the baggy T-shirt, her long blond hair looking frizzy and unkempt, and Ford guessed she had lost ten or fifteen pounds since he had seen her last. She had once had one of those healthy, heavy, square-jawed faces of a type often seen on the campuses of certain private colleges: the face of a daughter who'd gotten a full dose of her successful, athletic father's genes. But now her face was drawn and lined, no longer pretty but still handsome, and her blue eyes darted here and there, alive but different.