Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  Suarez said, "Of course not. But the large one, he knows something of the book. That is clear. "

  "Tomorrow you will arrange for a truck to take the hippie to Costa Rica. If he produces the book, we will deal with them. We need the money."

  "If he doesn't?"

  Zacul didn't answer. Instead he said, "And this child we have; the son of that whore Rafferty—he is no longer any use to us."

  "Then we should no longer keep him as a prisoner?"

  "The prisoners—that's another thing! I'm sick to death of their stubbornness and their filth. I can smell them when I walk to the lake. This camp is becoming a pigsty, I tell you. We have been patient enough! I have my limits!"

  "Of course."

  "We'll shoot them this afternoon."

  "Very well."

  "I'll shoot them."

  "The boy, too?"

  Zacul sat up, feeling the first sweet edge of the medicine entering his bloodstream. He thought for a moment, and said, "No. This evening, when I'm done with the prisoners, you'll bring the boy to me."

  "Certainly."

  "Then you and I and the other officers will have a special dinner. A small celebration."

  Suarez said, "I will notify the cook."

  Ford said, "I'm looking for frogs."

  Tomlinson watched patiently as Ford, on hands and knees, crawled along the path, pushing over rotted logs, which immediately swarmed with ants or termites.

  Finally Tomlinson said, "I'm the last one to rush a student in his work, but don't you think we ought to figure out a way to make Jake part of this deal before you do any more collecting?"

  "That's what I'm doing. That's exactly why we need to find this frog. A bright-red tree frog. You could help, you know. You have any cuts or anything on your hands?"

  "No."

  "Good. We need a bunch of them. "

  They had bathed from buckets inside their hut and changed clothes while the chef, Oscar, fried fish fillets for their lunch, corvina in garlic sauce. It was among the best fish Ford had ever had, but Tomlinson had refused it, choosing to have the cooks in the main mess ladle out a plate of red beans and rice for him.

  Now they were halfway down the jungle trail that led to the Pacific, already beyond the high bluffs at the southern perimeter of the lake. They had told Oscar they were going for a swim in the ocean. They told him to tell the general if he saw him. From the expression on Oscar's face, the chef clearly hoped he would not see the general.

  Ford said, "You know what Zacul wants, don't you?"

  Tomlinson was already kicking over logs, making a halfhearted search. "Yeah, he wants the book and he wants to sell us a lot of artifacts at inflated prices and make a ton of money. That's what I mean: Couldn't we work the boy into the deal some way?"

  "How? The book's in New York. It won't even get to Florida for another day or two—and I'm not positive about that."

  "Oh yeah."

  "We've got to get the hell out of here tonight, Tomlinson. We've got to grab the boy and go. If you get in that truck to go to Costa Rica tomorrow, I'm never going to see you again, and you'll never see me, because they'll kill us both."

  "Right. Shit." Then Tomlinson said, "Hey, is that one?" A small red frog jumped out from beneath a log ... sat blinking in a ray of sunlight . . . then jumped again.

  "Grab it."

  Tomlinson hunched over the frog, then hesitated. "These things don't bite, do they?"

  Ford lunged and caught the frog, then quickly gloved it with the tail of his shirt to protect his hands. He held it up so Tomlinson could see. The frog was only about three inches long, iridescent scarlet with black flecks at the dorsum. "This is one of the Dendrobates," Ford said. "In South America, they call it the poison dart frog because it secretes a poison through its skin that the natives use on their arrows. It's an alkaloid poison, potent as hell."

  "You're going to shoot Zacul with an arrow?"

  Ford was transferring the frog to his pocket. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do. We have to create some kind of diversion to get Jake out, so I thought if we could catch enough frogs to get a couple of tablespoons of the poison, we could sharpen some sticks and somehow surprise the guards—="

  "That sounds pretty chancey."

  "I know, I know. They'd shoot us before the poison had time to take effect. Hell, I don't know . . . I'm desperate, and that's the first thing I came up with. But the officers are the key. The soldiers around here aren't loyal to Zacul. They obey him out of fear. Take a look at the camp. Discipline's sloppy, beer bottles everywhere. With the officers out of the way for a while, maybe we could get the boy and make a break for it. Maybe if we could get the poison into their food—"

  "I'm not too crazy about that, either."

  "I'm open to suggestions." Getting a little tired of Tomlinson's second-guessing.

  "You're talking mass murder, man. I'm no fan of Zacul's, and if he really butchered those villagers like that doctor said, then the bastard should be committed. But I'm not going to have a hand in killing. Couldn't we just trick Zacul into coming into Tambor with us and hope we can find someone to help us?"

  "Like who?"

  "You said you knew people there."

  "Yeah, I do—peasant people who are terrified of anyone in uniform. We're not going to find any help there."

  "Maybe Rivera heard about us being kidnapped. He has people in Utatlan; informers, you said."

  "We can't count on Rivera. Face it, Tomlinson, we're going to have to find our own way out. For now, you can help by looking for more frogs."

  "I don't know, man."

  "The poison won't kill them. It'll just make them sick for a while. Maybe paralyze them for an hour or two. And that's only if I can find a lighter so we can roast the poison out of the frogs, and only if the poison doesn't taste so bitter Zacul and the others won't eat the food." Sighing because now the plan sounded even weaker.

  Tomlinson stood looking at him calmly. "You're telling the truth?"

  "I wouldn't ask you to help if I wasn't."

  "Okay, okay—let's flush out some more of those little bastards."

  But by the time they came to the lagoon on the jungle side of the long rind of white beach and sea, they had found only one more poison dart frog. They would need at least a dozen, maybe more.

  Discouraged, Ford began to wade the shallows of the lagoon. It was a clear-water bay with plenty of tidal transfer so the place was alive with tunicates, purple and gold cushion stars, club-spined sea urchins, bright sea fans, and all the scurrying, feeding, fecund life of a Pacific tidal pool. The bottom, he noted, was white sand and eel grass, and resting in or moving slowly over the bottom was a large population of gray and black fish with large flat heads and big incisor teeth—a genus known as botete. They were slow moving; so docile that they could be caught by hand. When they did decide to move, they propelled themselves with their tail and lateral fins like wind-up fish in a bathtub. Around more northern shores, fish related to the botete were called box fish or puffers or porcupine fish. It was one of the most prevalent fish in Pacific backwaters, and Ford wasn't as surprised to see so many as he was surprised that he hadn't thought of them before.

  Now that he had noticed them, he wondered if he should continue looking for poison dart frogs.

  "What's going on up there?" Tomlinson was standing in the shade of a mangrove, hands on hips, his back to Ford.

  Ford followed Tomlinson's gaze to the bluff above the lake a half mile away. From where they stood, with volcanoes seeping pale smoke in the background and the lake pouring a silver waterfall into the jungle below, the bluff was a spectacular sight. But Tomlinson wasn't enjoying the view. There were men on the bluff. Soldiers, but other men, too. Several of the men were naked. One wore baggy white shorts. All of them walked oddly, and Ford realized it was because their hands were tied behind their backs.

  "Hey, what are those guys going to do?"

  Ford said nothing, just watched as the soldiers lined the me
n on the high ledge above the lake. He knew what they were going to do.

  Tomlinson said, "That one soldier's Zacul, isn't it? Yeah, that's Zacul. See how he moves—like he's got batteries in him. He's a cocaine freak, man. I could smell their kitchens up there by the digs. Gas and ether. You can always spot a coke freak." Then Tomlinson said, "Oh, my God."

  Zacul was standing in front of one of the naked men, his right arm held straight out. The naked maTi was small with long black hair, and Ford guessed it was Creno, the Miskito Indian. Zacul's arm bounced and Creno tumbled backward off the bluff, hitting the rocks like a rag doll before disappearing behind the trees, into the lake.

  A couple of seconds later, the echo of a gunshot reached them.

  Ford began to walk slowly toward the bluff, as if ready to charge Zacul—as if that would help. "You don't see the boy up there, do you? Anyone Jake's size? That guy in the white underwear is the doctor, but I don't see any kids—"

  Tomlinson said in a whisper, "My God, he shot another one. He's going to shoot them all."

  Ford stopped walking. "Yeah, I think he is."

  The prisoners were on their knees now. Or on their bellies, trying to squirm away. Zacul shot them in the head one after another, and soldiers came behind him to kick eight more bodies off the bluff. Amazingly, some of the victims kicked wildly as they fell, still conscious despite the head wounds. Then the only one left was the young doctor, but Zacul kept the gun at his side. The doctor was on his knees, rocking back and forth, and Zacul seemed to be talking to him. Ford was about to say "He'll sign that paper now," but didn't have the words out when the doctor got slowly to his feet, hesitated, then took a long step and threw himself off the ledge. He fell freely for a microsecond then hit buttocks-first on a jagged rock outcrop before tumbling down the wall and out of sight.

  Tomlinson released a long breath, like a groan of pain.

  Ford said, "We can't let Zacul or anyone else know that we've seen this."

  Tomlinson dropped to his knees in the sand, head down, and made a deep primal grunting noise: a sob.

  Ford twisted a branch off a mangrove tree and began to strip off leaves. From his pocket, he took the two small red frogs, released them, then waded into the lagoon. With the branch, he penned a botete then flung it up onto the beach with his hands. He caught six more before he realized Tomlinson was standing in the water watching him, his face still pale. "You want me to help, man?"

  "No."

  "I don't know what you're doing, but—"

  "Just walk down the beach and pick up some shells. Some nice pretty shells so we can show them to that maniac if he wants to know what we were doing down here. But stay away from this lagoon unless you want me to lie to you again. ..."

  NINETEEN

  Ford caught ten of the fish and worked on them in the shade of the mangroves. Their skin was as leathery as melon rind and he used a sharp stick, ripping them open from the anus. But then he found a couple of razor clams that were better for cutting.

  Ford laid back the bellies of the fish, then cut out the small livers and gall bladders as carefully as he could. Several of the fish were gravid, and he added a few of the eggs to the pile.

  Tomlinson came up behind him, throwing a shadow. "I've seen people eat those kind of fish. Or fish kind of like that, I'm almost sure. In New Jersey they call them sea squab. I think they were called fugu fish in Japan. They keep them alive in the markets." There was the timbre of relief in his voice, as if Ford couldn't be planning anything that bad.

  "Do you know what they call people who eat fish from this family?"

  Tomlinson shook his head. When Ford said, "They call them fools," Tomlinson turned without comment and walked away.

  Ford tore a piece from his shirt, wrapped the entrails, then threw the dead fish far out into the lagoon.

  They followed the path back toward the camp and stopped where it swept closest to the bluff. They were above the lake and could see some of the bodies still floating. The young doctor was facedown, his arms thrown out, his legs submerged and spread. The water was clear and very blue, and it added to the impression that the doctor had somehow been frozen in freefall, trapped in blue space.

  They could see something else, too: dark torpedo shapes that appeared small from that distance, spiraling up through the shafts of sunlight which pierced the depths. They were sharks; dozens of them. When the sharks broached and listed to feed, the corpses bobbed like corks, trailing rust-colored stains that marked the trajectories of the feeding fish: red contrails on the pale void.

  They stood watching for a short time, saying nothing, then Tomlinson said, "He went brave, that doctor. I wish his schoolmates could have seen him. The man was no coward. Jumped off the cliff rather than work for Zacul."

  Ford suspected the doctor had probably jumped out of fear of being shot, but either way it had taken courage. He said nothing.

  Back at their hut, Tomlinson piled the seashells outside the door as Ford said, "I'm going to pay a visit to the chef." Tomlinson, who still looked shaken, very weary, said he would come along; that he might be able to provide a diversion. When

  Ford said he couldn't, Tomlinson insisted. "Look, man, what we saw upset me, okay? But I'm not an invalid."

  "Then what you can do is try and find a leverage bar—-a strong limb or something—we can use to pry up the lip of the stockade. Hide it in the weeds. We may need it tonight."

  Tomlinson said, "I feel like I'm going to throw up."

  Ford said, "In the next few hours there's going to be a lot of that going around."

  Oscar was alone in the officers' kitchen, peeling potatoes. He looked up expectantly when Ford came through the screen door. Was there something the Señor required? Some way he could be of service? Ford said that he had come because the fish prepared for his lunch was superb; that he wished to watch a master at work if it was possible.

  Oscar beamed, looking down at the pile of potatoes. "It is true," he said in Spanish, "that I once trained in the very best kitchens of Masagua City. But out here, with these limited facilities, my work has suffered," looking rather sad as he made this sly request for reassurance.

  "Artistry shows even when the materials are inferior," Ford offered. "I cook only as a hobby, but I know that much."

  That quick, Ford had the run of the kitchen. Oscar wanted to show him everything; to make all the difficulties he endured known. His stove was fueled with wood. It was fine for boiling and frying, but how could one bake properly with such a system? Bread was difficult; cakes a disaster. But did the general and his officers understand these difficulties? No, but they expected perfection anyway. Then there was the problem of proper utensils. How could he provide superior fare when he was forced to use the cookware of peasants? Ford listened sympathetically as he worked his way between Oscar and the stove.

  There were several two-gallon pots bubbling on the fires, and Ford lifted the lids one by one. One pot held red beans. Another held several chickens being rendered for stock. In a third, spiny lobsters, whole clams, and a fish head simmered in an oily broth. The beans would have served; the fish chowder was ideal. Ford inhaled deeply, as if in ecstasy, and put the lid on the counter. "Bouillabaisse!"

  "What?" Momentarily confused, Oscar had to look in the pot himself to see what Ford was talking about.

  Ford said, "Truly, you are a master. Who would have expected to find such artistry in the jungle?" Then he hesitated. "But perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps it isn't really bouillabaisse, for I see you are using clams—"

  Oscar held up his index finger; an exclamation. "I use them because our bouillabaisse is not the weak soup of the Mediterranean! This is ocean bouillabaisse, as delicate and as strong as the sea itself. I use mollusks as well as crustaceans, plus good fresh eorvina. You will see! I will serve you this for your dinner."

  "If you're sure General Zacul and his officers won't require it all. I don't want to deny my host."

  "They would eat it all if I let them, the"—
Oscar was about to say "pigs," but he quickly amended—"for they are having a party tonight. The Cubans especially appreciate fine seafood, as does the general. They have complimented me personally."

  Ford pointed to the enlisted men's mess where soldiers in T-shirts stirred huge pots cooking over open fires. "Do those men also know the secret of your bouillabaisse?" When the chef turned to look, Ford dropped the botete entrails into the soup and he began to stir with the ladle.

  "Those men are peasants. They cannot even cook beans properly. I will serve you and your associate the soup for dinner."

  Ford scooped a ladle and smelled it. "You think there's enough?"

  "Tonight I will eat beans like the peasants so that the soup may be eaten by one who appreciates artistry. "

  Ford put the lid back on the pot. "A sacrifice you won't regret, Oscar."

  When Ford returned to the cabin, Tomlinson was inside pacing back and forth, back and forth. He looked up when the door opened and said, "They took him.'

  "What?"

  "They took him—the kid! They took Jake!" He was running his fingers through his hair, frantic. "Not five minutes ago I saw Suarez pushing him down the path. That dick."

  "Where? Toward the cliff?"

  "Naw, the other way. Toward the main building."

  Ford said, "Maybe they were taking him to the shower or something," not because he believed it, but to calm Tomlinson.

  "Come on."

  "Wherever they took him, we can't do anything about it now."

  Tomlinson stepped in front of him, his eyes intense, breathing too fast, hyperventilating. "Whata you mean we can't do anything about it? We got to; those bastards! I've had just about enough of this shit, Doc. I can't take much more; I mean it. I keep seeing those guys falling off that cliff. I close my eyes and I see that little doctor hitting the rocks. You think I'm gonna let that happen to that little kid? No way, man; no fucking way." And he pushed past Ford and started out the door.