Tampa Burn (11 page)

“For starters, she was more than chilly,
compadre.
She was distant, with a little touch of distaste thrown in. That was my strong impression. It may have seemed like she loved you once, but not now. She doesn't even appear to like you much—which doesn't mesh with the relationship you apparently once had. Did you ever notice her behaving oddly before?” His question seemed to have broader implications.

“No, not really. What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing . . . Did you do something to offend her? Piss her off?”

“I don't know. I've thought about it and thought about it. A few years back, we spent a couple of great weeks together down in Panama. It was like we'd never been apart. Then, nearly two years or so ago, she began to cool. Finally, she dropped right off the radar screen. The only time she contacts me is with a card at Christmas, a photo of Lake enclosed. Not even a note from her. And when I telephone, she's never in.”

“Did you ever ask your son about it?”

The tarpon's tail was beginning to flag more strongly now. “No. I wouldn't impose on a child with a question like that. You wouldn't either.”

“Then my advice, Doc? After you release the fish, take her aside and ask her. Get it out on the table. What you've got to deal with now is too important to have any problems communicating. Which is why I'm going to leave you two alone.”

He was already slogging away when I called, “How about a beer later?”

Over his shoulder, he replied, “You betcha. After you talk to her, raise me on the VHF. Or my brand-new cellular phone. I can't wait to hear how my pal screwed up this time.”

 

 

PILAR
was visibly uneasy now that Tomlinson was gone, the two of us alone near the big wooden fish tank on the lowest deck of my stilt house. Though she was within arm's reach, her uneasiness created a distance that seemed an insular vacuum. It made a wall of those few feet.

Communication is as rare as conversation is routine. She manufactured conversation to make the wall between us less evident. For a wall to exist, we had to have once been intimate. That was something she seemed unwilling to acknowledge.

Tomlinson was apparently a comfortable subject. She spoke of how unusual it was for her to like and trust a man so quickly. She'd liked him immediately when she met him in Masagua. She liked him even more now, she said.

When she asked, “Does he have family?” I got the impression that she was actually asking if he had a wife or lover.

Maybe that's why I replied with several harsh truths that I seldom share. “He has a daughter, Nichola, who refuses to see him. He has a brother who's a heroin addict—Rangoon, if he's still alive. His father's gone native somewhere in the Amazon basin. He was a paleontologist. A brilliant one before he disappeared.”

That jolted her. “So strange. So tragic.”

I nodded. “A century or so back, his family accumulated a fortune on a couple of patents. Something to do with a synchronizing device that allowed airplanes to fire machine guns through spinning propellers. It made the killing ratios huge. The First World War alone, it had to account for thousands of dead. Some fortunes, I guess it's heirs that pay the price.”

“I'm surprised a man like Tomlinson would accept blood money.”

For some reason, her elevated opinion of my friend, even though accurate, continued to irk me. I am often asked how Tomlinson makes a living. I always evade. It's something never discussed around the marina. This time, though, I answered with another harsh truth.

“He
doesn't
accept family money. Hasn't since he was a teenager and found out the source. By then, though, he'd spent a bundle, so he still feels like he's stained for life. When he told you about the crop he was growing on the islands? That's how he's made his living ever since. Smuggling dope. Selling drugs. Sails to the Yucatán, sails back. Or sometimes as far south as Guyana. He's gone into the rum business, too. Something legal, finally.”

I paused, startled by the perverse pleasure I took in telling her that. Yet it didn't trouble her. Even though the illegal drug trade has made chaos of Latin America's economy, she seemed to approve. I could see it in her expression, just as I could also see that I'd been diminished in her eyes by my small betrayal.

That's exactly what I'd done, too—betrayed the confidence of my best friend.

In an idiotic effort to redeem myself, I added quickly, “Not that he needs to do that anymore. It's a long story, but he also has a huge following as a Zen teacher—people who're devoted. He could probably double his great-grandfather's fortune within a few years, they're so many. If he pushed the money thing. Which he'd never do. The man's motives are pure. No one doubts that.”

Talking once again like I was Tomlinson's friend.

Pilar said, “He's a religious leader?”

“Through his writings, his teachings. You really have no idea. He's always been that way, but then word about him began to spread on the Internet.”

“I guess I should find that surprising,” my former lover said, musing. “But I don't. There's something very powerful about the man. Spiritual. When I met him in Central America, I felt it.”

I told her, “Oh, there is, there is. Everyone says the same,” as I walked to the wooden fish tank. I put my hands on the rim and stared down into a world that I have always preferred because of the precise interlinkings, and clarity.

 

 

I had the skimmer net now, cleaning out the detritus of shrimp husks and bits of fish scale, while snappers, immature grouper, and tarpon spooked below, their dense muscularity crackling.

I pretended to concentrate, perplexed by my reaction.

It was summer dusk, and mosquitoes were moving over the water out of mangrove shadows. Light in the western sky beyond the mangroves, beyond the marina, had an oyster sheen. High clouds to the east still reflected a rusty, mango band of sunset upon cumulus canyons.

Eastward, if viewed from that high vantage point, was central Florida, cattle pasture, citrus, and saw grass. A hundred miles beyond were the condominium reefs of Palm Beach, Lauderdale, Miami.

Different beaches. Different light. Different molecular makeup, in scent and feel, to the sea wind. Visible from the cumulus towers was an entirely different species of Florida.

Tomorrow, we would be there.

I asked the lady, “Hungry?” eager to change the subject.

She shook her head. “I haven't wanted food since I went into his room and found him missing. I don't need to eat. I have a room at Sundial Resort on . . . is it Middle Gulf Drive? I think I'll go there now. I'm exhausted.”

I said, “I can see that. Tired because of the trip? Or maybe it's the company.”

She refused to be drawn into that discussion. “I'll call you in the morning. We can talk about what time we should leave for Miami. Do you know your way around the downtown area?”

I replied, “I don't know my way around the downtown area of any city in the world.”

She didn't smile. “In that case, we'd probably better leave early. It may take us a while to find the restaurant where we're supposed to be.”

I agreed and told her that I'd walk her to her rental car. I put down the skimmer net and turned her easily by touching her elbow. I guided her instantly shoreward, along the boardwalk toward the mangroves, by touching her elbow a second time. Suddenly, I knew how people with communicable diseases feel.

I wanted to ask her,
Why
? Why was she reacting this way? She wasn't just cool, she was icy. Tomlinson was right. There was more than just a touch of distaste. What the hell had I done to offend her?

I wanted to press it, but the timing didn't seem right. Instead, I stuck to the subject. I told her what we had to focus on now was finding Lake, staying smart and negotiating his freedom. So the first thing we had to do, I told her, was make a decision. Was she absolutely certain she didn't want any kind of official help? I added, “Professional help, I'm talking about.”

Walking, still maintaining a measured distance between us, she said, “I don't see how it's possible. The American FBI, Florida law enforcement agencies, they certainly have no jurisdiction over a kidnapping committed in Masagua. Even if they did, I wouldn't risk getting my son killed.”

Her tone seemed unnecessarily sharp, and I matched it when I replied, “He's my son, too, remember. That's why I want to consider all the options. Review all the assets to make sure we bring him home safely.”

“Biologically, you have taken the role of his father. Of course. I'm also aware that in the last two years or so, you and Laken have developed a . . . well, at least a friendship through your correspondence. But let's be clear about one thing, Marion. When it comes to Laken's well-being,
I
make the decisions.
¿Claro?
I welcome your advice, your input. But I have final say.”

She'd stopped in the mangroves where the boardwalk exits onto the edge of the gravel parking area near the gate to the marina. Mosquitoes had been trailing us in an orbiting veil, and now they began to vector, flea-hopping off clothing, seeking skin.

I took half a step toward her. I watched her take a full step back as I said, “I'm well aware that the FBI has no jurisdiction in Central America. That's not what I meant by professional help. There may be other options. I know people who are military types—covert extraction experts—who might be willing and able to help us find and free Lake.”

She said, “You don't think I'm already aware that you know those kind of people? Apparently you never realized that I'm not stupid. Why do you think I came to you looking for help? It's not because you're his
father.
And it's certainly not because I think you're a
nice
person.”

Her tone was so bitter, so accusatory, that I was momentarily speechless. She'd never spoken to me like that. I'd never heard her speak to anyone like that.

“What in the hell is wrong with you, lady? You're furious at me, and for no reason. You've been treating me like I'm poison.
Why?
”

When she tried to turn, I caught her arm and pulled her to me, my face looking down into hers. “I'm not going to let you run away. If I've done something, if I've said something to hurt you, get it out. Let's talk about it. But no more of your passive-aggressive crap. You're too good for it, and so am I. Plus, you're the one who said it—we don't have time.”

Her face was shadowed in the mangrove dusk. She looked into my face, then looked at her arm until I took my hand away, freeing her. I watched her straighten her blouse, her slow, deliberate gestures telling me that I should feel like a bullying ass because I'd stopped her.

In a voice that was maddeningly aloof, she said, “All right. Maybe I should have told you months ago. When I first found out.”

I didn't like the sound of that. I could feel my pulse in my neck and the side of my head.

“Found out what?”

“About
you.
Who you really are. What kind of man you are. In Masagua, when we met, when . . . when I began to have feelings for you,
thought
I fell in love, it was with a man who I believed was a marine biologist. A scientist. A good and decent man, a researcher dedicated to his profession—”

I said, “I was. I still am.”

She held up a palm—
quiet.
“I knew there was also a possibility that you were working for the American State Department. Or military. I'd heard the rumors. I'm not stupid. But most such agents are simply abroad to gather data, to make quantitative analysis. They're observers. I had no problem with that. But you did more, Marion. That's what I discovered. Far more.”

I stood silently, breath shallow, fists clenched as I listened to her add, “A person brought me the files. Someone showed me the photos. A person who became interested in your background and did the research. I couldn't believe what I read. What I
saw.
I didn't
want
to believe.

“You did illegal things in my country. And in Nicaragua, too. Unthinkable things. The worst, though, was what you did to a man named Don Blas Diego.” Her voice became harsh, emotional and accusatory, as she added, “You knew. You
had
to know who that kind and decent man was. You knew that Don Blas was my—”

I interrupted. I had to interrupt because I couldn't allow her to finish. “At the time,” I said, “I
didn't
know who he was. And for a long time afterward. I swear it. I truly didn't know, not until much later.”

I did not add that Don Blas Diego had been neither a kind man nor a decent man. What good would it serve now, telling her the truth? To challenge her family memories?

On one level, I was pained that Pilar had been hurt. On another, I was shocked that those documents still existed. Supposedly, there had been only one file maintained on my activities: a book-sized dossier that, not so long ago, I had tossed into a driftwood fire after making an exchange with a friend on a deserted beach. I'd watched the pages burn and curl, feeling the first suggestion of freedom from a past that had consumed me. That such a file still existed in Masagua seemed illustrative of the chaos that was now crippling it.

Something else: Clearly, someone had chosen me as a personal project. Or a target. Had singled me out as the focus of a lot of deep digging and single-minded research. More troubling, that person necessarily had a first-rate intellect. They'd had to correctly reassemble a lot of convoluted links to find those files, and then unscramble or decode them.