Everglades (44 page)

No, I did not mind.

She lay on her back in a lounge chair, beside the blue-tiled plunge pool, a tall drink and a book within easy reach. She wore sunglasses and an orange bikini bottom, nothing more. Even after six days of this—lots of nude sun-bathing—her breasts were pale orbs, flattened by their own weight and softness.

I checked my watch before I sat beside her. She trembled slightly as I began to apply sun lotion to her abdomen and thighs, her pink areolas flushing, nipples erect, blue veins beneath the milk-white skin deepening in shade.

Her eyes closed, the lady placed her hand on my thigh, and began to massage my leg with the precise, slow rhythm that I used to apply the oil.

She murmured lazily, “I think we need to go back to our bedroom for a little bit.”

Smiling, I thought,
Again?

That good woman, Grace Walker, the Sarasota realtor I’d been dating, had told me something interesting and true a month or so before. It was over dinner—a nice restaurant on St. Armand’s Key, just off the circle.

She’d said, “Doc, here’s what I’ve learned about men and women. If the sex is good, it’s about thirty percent of a solid relationship. If the sex is bad, if the chemistry isn’t there, it’s about ninety percent of the relationship. It’s just not going to work.”

It was her way of telling me it was time for us to start dating other people.

I was neither surprised nor disappointed. I was, in fact, relieved, because I’d driven north to meet her with plans to end it myself.

We’d remain friends—always friends.

And Grace was certainly right about sexual chemistry. With this lady, the chemistry was there. It was unmistakably, obsessively, irresistibly there.

That morning after making love for the second time, we’d lain naked, sweaty and spent, beneath the revolving shadows of a ceiling fan, and I’d listened to her say, “Maybe it’s true. Maybe we should stop fighting it. Maybe we
are
destined to be more than just friends.”

I replied, “An exclusive relationship. You and me. I’m willing to try—if I have enough energy left after a couple of weeks vacationing with you.”

She chuckled, and said, “Maybe more than just a dating relationship. We’ve both lived alone for a long time. Do you think you’d be willing to try? Down the road, I mean.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I would.” I meant it.

“Something’s changed in you, Doc. Something’s changed in us both. Do you feel it? It’s different.
We
seem different. I’ve been thinking . . . well, maybe it’s because of the paper Tomlinson gave us to read. Maybe it really
has
had an influence. I checked the Internet. It’s changed the lives of a lot of people.”

We’d brought “One Fathom Above Sea Level” along on the plane for something to read. The lady had spent far more time pondering it than I. She’d even used a pink highlighter to mark her favorite quotes.

She’d made me review them:

Another was:
Humanity has a limited biological capacity for change, but an unlimited capacity for spiritual change. The only human institution incapable of evolving spiritually is a cemetery.

Another was:
Pain is an inescapable part of the human experience. Misery, however, is not. Misery is an option.

Another:
Hope could not exist if man were created by a random, chemical accident. Pleasure, yes. Desire, yes. But not hope. Selfless hope is contrary to the dynamics of evolution or the necessities of a species.

I’d marked my own favorite in green:
Never underestimate the destructive power of small, mean people joined together as a larger group.

Lying in bed, her long legs thrown over mine, she had said, “You can’t read what Tomlinson’s written and still doubt that spirituality—having
faith
—is important. So maybe it
is
our destiny.”

I told her, yes, that was certainly a possibility—although I didn’t believe it.

I found Tomlinson’s paper interesting for the intellectual depth and perception it demonstrated, but nothing more. I am incapable of lying to myself, so I am incapable of embracing a spiritual view of the world. I’d come to accept who I am,
what
I am. It’s unlikely that I will ever believe—yet I still retain hope. Even so I no longer engage in that debate, or risk undermining the beliefs of others.

So now, lounged back in her chair, the lady arched her back slightly, moaning, as I rubbed oil on her heavy breasts, her hand moving beneath my running shorts, searching.

Breathing faster now, she whispered, “Doc. Let’s go to the bedroom. Now.”

I checked my watch: 10:27 A.M.

I thought:
Damn.

Her fingers had found me, and I was certainly ready.

I said, “Stop, wait. Let me check something.”

I stood awkwardly, and jogged barefooted down to our little section of private beach on St. Martin’s in the French West Indies. I used small but superb Zeiss binoculars to look across the bay that separated our rental house from a big, Mediterranean mansion half a mile away. The mansion was built into the side of a cliff, connected to the main road above by a gated access drive.

Security there was tight for a reason. The house was being rented by Omar Muhammad, the successor to Sabri al-Banna, and the new head of Abul Nidal.

There was Omar. I could see him plainly through the binoculars. He was a tall, bearded man with hollow eyes. He was lugging his scuba gear down the steps from the house to the beach.

Omar was a man of habit. Every morning for the last three mornings, exactly at eleven, he’d put on his gear, and swim out to the shallow reef a hundred yards away. Always alone.

Quid pro quo, Hal Harrington had told me.

I sighed, turned and walked back to the patio. I placed the binoculars on the table, sat and kissed the lady on the lips. “Honey, give me a little time to rest up, okay? I’m going for a swim. I’ll be back in, oh, a little less than an hour.”

For the first time, she opened her sleepy eyes, sat up and said, “You want to swim? Hell, I’ll go with you. We’ve been eating like horses all week. I could use the exercise.”

To my right calf, I was strapping a stainless-steel Randall Attack/Survival knife in its leather scabbard. I strapped it tight, and tied the safety lanyard around my ankle.

I leaned, kissed Dewey Nye once more. Then I looked into her good eyes, bright and true, and said, “No, my dear. This swim, I should probably go alone.”

Turn the page for a sneak preview of
Randy Wayne White’s
new Doc Ford mystery,

tampa burn

Available in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Ciudad de Masagua
Republic of Masagua
Central America
April

 

 

Several
hours before Praxcedes Lourdes abducted Marion Ford’s son, he was sitting in a smoky cantina with his getaway driver, bragging about his new fame.

In Spanish, he said, “The visitor who burns men alive. It’s what the poor assholes in Nicaragua call me. The peasants. And in Guatemala. The night visitor. They use my name to scare hell out of children. To make brats behave when they disobey. Understand? At a certain age, kids stop believing in Santa Claus. Even some of the saints. But they’ll never stop believing in me.”

Prax was smoking a Cohiba cigar. He inhaled, perhaps smiling, though it was impossible to tell because he wore a mask made of thin wire mesh. Guerrilla fighters wore identical masks during Nicaragua’s Contra war to hide their identities. Eyebrows and pink cheek flush were painted on the outside—a clownish touch.

Lourdes liked that.

The man always kept his face covered. When he traveled, or went out at night, he wore surgical gauze, the kind that protects from germs. Because of certain Asian viruses, it was no longer an oddity.

At other times, he wore a bandana, or a bandage wrap, plus sunglasses—except for now, in this dark bar. The Contra mask, though, was his favorite because he could smoke and drink, and also because it provided him a face when he looked in the mirror.

The driver watched smoke sieve through the mesh. He averted his eyes.

“Not long after General Balserio paid me to come to Masagua, your people started calling me Incendiario. Using only the one word. That’s a better name, don’t you think? It sounds like a rock singer in the United States. It’s got star appeal. Sexy—not that you coffee peons know anything about show business.”

Prax made a card-fan with his hands, as if creating a marquee above the table, and said with flair, “The great Incendiario. Like I’m star of this half-assed revolution, more famous than your generals. Which I am. In the mountains, when people say my name, they whisper. You know why?”

The driver was staring at the table, aware the man was not speaking to him; an answer wasn’t expected. He was bragging to please himself. Even so, the driver replied, “It’s because the people of Masagua are superstitious. They don’t believe that you are—” He paused. He’d almost said “human.” “That you really exist.”

Lourdes leaned forward slightly. His Spanish was unusually accented—French Canadian with a dose of Florida Cracker. The accent was amplified when he grew strident, and he became strident now.

“No. It’s because Masaguans are stupid turds, like most people. No smarter than a bunch of sheep, including your genius generals. What I had to teach them was, if you kill a couple thousand enemy, nothing changes. But if you scare two hundred thousand of them shitless—make their families afraid to leave the house at night—that’s when a war starts going your way.”

The mask seemed to bob oddly. Another smile?

“But not you, Reynaldo. I don’t scare you. Do I?”

The driver reached to take a drink of his rum, but stopped because he realized his hand would shake if he lifted the glass. He said, “Why should I be scared? In my village, we speak well of you. We hear the rumors.” He shrugged as if unconcerned, but his laughter was strained. “Crazy stories. Lies. But we fight for the same cause, so we know you’re a good man.”

In reply to Lourdes’s dubious gesture—the way he tilted his head—the driver spoke a little too loudly when he added, “It’s true. We teach our children that you are a great revolutionary. That they have no reason to fear you.”

“No reason to fear me?”

“God as my witness! That is what we teach children.”

Signaling the waitress for another drink, Praxcedes said softly, “Talking to God like he’s your pal. That’s brave. They send a hero like you to drive the car.”

Sarcasm? Reynaldo couldn’t be sure.

He was glad when Prax changed the subject, saying, “The boy and his mother live in what used to be a nunnery, Clois ters La Concepcion. It’s across from the Presidential Palace, next to the market.”

He was back to discussing the kidnapping.

 

 

Reynaldo nodded. “I know the market. We sold vegetables at the Mercado Central every Sunday. I know the city as well as any man.”

“Um-huh. Brave and a genius, too.”

That inflection again.

“If you know the city, then you know about the tunnel that connects the convent with the park.”

Reynaldo answered, “A tunnel? A tunnel runs beneath the street from the convent?”

Praxcedes blew a stream of smoke into the older man’s face. “There’s something you don’t know? Then keep your mouth closed while I explain.”

The driver sat motionless, silent, as Prax told him that the convent, where the boy lived, had been built in the 1500s. The tunnel had been built in the 1600s, during the Inquisition.

He said, “The nuns dug the tunnel to save dumb Indios, just like you, who were sentenced to death. I was telling you about my fame? History, that’s how it started.

“During the Inquisition, Spaniards burned Indians at the stake if they wouldn’t turn Catholic. Thousands of them. When the Indios screamed, if they called out to God—like for mercy? The priests wrote their words on paper. To those assholes, that was a form of conversion. It’s what they wanted.

“I’ve got a laptop computer with a wireless connection,” Lourdes said. “I’m not like the rest of you ignorant hicks. I do research. All the time, I’m learning. The Catholic thing, burning men alive to win a war. When I read it, I thought, Perfect. Even though it was years after what the soldiers did to me.”

Lourdes stopped and stared at his driver. “You’ve probably heard all kinds of stories. About why I look the way I look.”

Reynaldo dipped his head twice, slowly. Yes.

“Later, when we’ve got the boy, if you don’t screw up, maybe I’ll tell you what really happened. The details. Would you like that?”

He watched the driver think about it for several seconds.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll understand. The church, the government, they’re both the same. Big shots trying to screw you if they can.”

With a whistle of scorn, Prax took a kitchen match, struck it, and leaned close to refire his cigar.

Reynaldo looked long enough to see, floating above the flame, one sleepy gray eye and one lidless blue eye leering out at him from the mask. Prax wore a hooded brown monk’s smock that was common in Central America. The hood was back, so Reynaldo could also see the damage that fire had done to the man’s scalp. The top of his head appeared to be a human skull over which gray skin had been stretched too tight, torn, then patched with melted wax. There were tufts of blond hair growing out of white bone.

When Prax spoke certain words, he lisped, which suggested that his lips and face were also scarred.

When Reynaldo had first received the assignment to drive Incendiario, he’d been excited. He’d hoped, in a perverse way, that he would be among the few to see the great man’s face.