Sanibel Flats

TEN

Rafe was in the pickup, riding right there beside him through the heat and traffic, and Ford couldn't resist the urge to open the urn and have a look: some brown and gray stuff, about the same texture as cat litter, but a whole bunch of bone shards, too. Seemed to be way too many bones to be properly called ashes, and then Ford remembered the man on the phone, the man at the crematorium, saying they'd cremated the remains but hadn't pulverized them, and should they put a hold on that?

Apparently they'd put a hold on the pulverization just to be safe, or had forgotten because the process had been interrupted. Which wasn't great news. Now Harvey was going to have to see his brother's bones spread along with his ashes; bits of fingers, tibia, ribs easily recognized. And Ford had thought the worst was over. . . .

North Cut was a deep-water pass that separated Sandy Key from the next barrier island. It was narrow, only about a hundred yards wide, and the tidal current ripped through like a river. Ford carried the urn down onto the beach where Harvey and the other men were standing. They were an odd-looking group in their dark suits, standing uneasily in the sun as vacationers strolled by and while, down the shore, teenagers threw a Frisbee for a big Chesapeake Bay retriever.

Harvey took a breath and said, "Well, I guess we ought to get it done. What you figure, just sort of pour the ashes in the water? Tide's going pretty good; nice outgoing tide. Take my brother right out to sea."

Ford was holding the urn in his right arm, but he shifted it to the other side, away from Harvey, and removed the lid so that Les Durell and a couple of others could peek in, but Harvey couldn't. Ford said, "We could do that, Harv. Or ... I guess there are a couple of other ways to do it, too. "

Durell was looking in the urn, then he looked down the beach at the dog. The danger of dumping all those bone shards in the water with a retriever around was obvious, and he said quickly, "Yeah, Harvey, maybe we ought to think of another way."

Harvey looked perplexed, but a little irritated, too. "What other way? You guys have a better way, just come out and tell me. Damn it, I wish we'd brought that minister. He was a good guy. He'd of known how to do it."

Bern Horack, who was a couple of years older than Ford but had graduated a year behind him, said, "Maybe you should say a few words, Harv, then we could throw the whole jar in. Like a burial at sea." He was staring at the retriever, giving it an evil look. "Unless you boys want to excuse me for a minute, while I find a club—"

Ford cut in, saying "How about this, Harvey? We could walk past the urn and each take a turn throwing some of Rafe's . . . ashes . . . into the water. It might be a nice way to say good-bye. And each man could have a moment of silence to think about Rafe, remember him the way he was."

The look of evil on Horack's face faded. "Reach in there . . . with our hands?"

Harvey was nodding, oblivious to Horack, relieved. "That's a good idea, Doc. I like that. These are the best friends Rafe ever had. Your way would make it real personal." He looked at Ford for a moment. "You were his best friend. You start. I'd like to just watch for a bit."

Ford placed the urn at the water's edge and stood in silence for a time. Then he reached into the urn and took a piece of bone with the ashes, hoping to set a precedent. He threw overhanded, far enough out into the pass so the tide wouldn't bring the bone back, pretended not to notice the ashes that blew back in his face, then stepped away so the next man could take his turn. It was a moving thing to see—at first. But there were a lot of bone and ashes, and only ten men. It would take three, maybe four full passes to get rid of everything, and Ford was already beginning to worry the heat and the grimness of the task would destroy what, at best, was a delicate mood. But then he noticed something . . . something in the way the men were throwing. The moments of silence were becoming shorter and the throws longer, each man trying to throw a little farther than the other, but without showing extra effort. They were watching until the shards hit, too, leaning to the right or left, depending on how they curved. Even Ford had to admire how the wind caught the chunks of bone, making them veer like wild curveballs or screwballs. The veil of competition finally burst open when Horack, on the fourth round, took a piece of rib, crow-hopped like an outfielder, and hurled it halfway across the pass, then turned around beaming. "Let's see you bastards beat that!" And then looked at Harvey Hollins in a dawning agony, remembering where he was, what he was doing. "Boy, Harv . . . I'm sorry. I got kinda wrapped up; plus Noel Yarbrough there was hogging all the really big pieces, and ..."

Harvey, though, was smiling. Then he was laughing; laughing and sniffing at the same time, wiping the tears away. "I know, I know. Did you see that thing break?"

Relieved, Bern Horack said, "Even when Rafe was pitching regular, he never had better stuff in his life. Like it dropped off a fucking table," then worried about that for a moment, but Harvey was still laughing. So was everyone else.

Les Durell said, "Why don't you and I take a little walk," looking up at Ford, this broad man with a boyish face but piercing eyes.

The others were heading toward a bar down the beach, and Ford yelled to Harvey that they'd be there soon, then said to Durell, "Let's go."

They walked for about a hundred yards in silence before Durell said, "You got me all the way down here. So talk."

"I remember you as being more cheerful. It was that much trouble to come?"

"Right; cheerful. I'm normally very cheerful—when I'm not being forced to act like a cop. You're forcing me. Not that I'm sorry I came. It was probably the nicest service I've ever been to; the only one where I've ever laughed, anyway. But I've been going to too many of them lately. That's how you can tell you've reached middle age, by the way: Your friends start dying."

"Rafe didn't just die."

"So I've heard."

"But you're not going to pay any attention to Harvey or me?"

"In this state, about two thousand people every year take the suicide cure for insomnia. How many times you think the loved ones go running to the police, saying it had to be murder because so-and-so wasn't the type? I'll pay attention when I hear something worth listening to."

"Just the facts, ma'am, huh?"

"That's right. I like facts. Numbers are easier to deal with than people. Law enforcement is tough enough without getting emotionally involved."

Ford said, "Okay, Les, I'll give you the facts. I have information that proves someone—probably one or more people in the Everglades County Sheriff's Department and the medical examiner's office—tampered with, suppressed, or ignored evidence in the investigation of Rafe's death. The information I have also strongly suggests that he was murdered."

"Yeah? So tell me."

"That's the catch. If I give you that information, I'll be confessing to a felony. "

"That's just great; just goddamn great. You and Rafe were smuggling drugs together, weren't you?"

"I only saw Rafe twice since high school. I wasn't smuggling anything."

"Right, oh sure. Rafe with his big house and big cars, flying in and out of the country. You think I didn't know? Every morning I woke up, I expected to see his name in the paper, arrested by the feds. I was very damn glad he didn't live in my county. I hate arresting friends. I've done it."

"Which is a subtle warning to me."

"I didn't mean it to be subtle."

"I'll give you the information, but I'd like it to be in confidence."

"I can't promise that, M.D. I'm sorry."

"Then I'm going to tell you anyway."

Durell held up an open palm. "Before you do, let me give you another warning. More facts and figures. Every five hours or so, someone in Florida ends up on the business end of a knife or some cheap handgun and gets murdered. A couple thousand known murders a year, and a fourth of those never even come close to being solved. Never mind about the bodies we don't find that end up scattered across the 'Glades or shoved under some mangrove root someplace. Those poor bastards go into the books under missing persons. You've read how tough it is to pull off the perfect murder? Well, that's pure bullshit. A perfect murder happens every day in this state; every single day. And it's not because the law enforcement agencies aren't competent, or that cops don't work their butts off, or don't care."

"If you're trying to make a point—"

Durell stopped, turned, and looked at him. "The point is, your information better be very good. If it's not, you could confess to a felony and get absolutely nothing in return. Murder isn't that easy to prove, and murderers tend to make themselves real hard to find. Think it over before you tell me anything."

Ford had already thought it over. It took about ten minutes to give Durell the entire story. He spent most of that time describing how determined Rafe was to get his son back from the Masaguan kidnappers. The only thing he left out was what he'd found in the tree trunk. Durell's expression went from pained to suspicious to thoughtful. He was silent for a time, then said, "Tell me again why you thought it might not be Hollins. At first, I mean. You went too quick over that part."

"Just small things. The watch was on the left wrist, with suntan marks to match. There was identification in the wallet, but nothing current. "

"So? Lots of left-handers wear their watches on their left wrist, and he'd spent so much time out of the country maybe he had no current I.D."

"I know, Les, I know. I was just trying to tell you step by step how my mind was working when I found him. The point is, if he was alive, he'd have gotten in touch with me by now."

Durell was quiet again, receding into the cop mind; big-shouldered man in a suit, out of place in the heat of a Florida beach. He said, "I come up with four or five different scenarios; reasons for you to make up a story like this. But none of them seem to fit what I know about you."

"It's because I'm telling the truth."

Durell was nodding, still thinking. "The jerks who run Everglades County, this little island kingdom, have been riding toward a fall for a long, long time. Maybe this is it. But why would they want a murder to go in the books as a suicide?"

"Bad publicity."

"It's possible, but I don't buy it."

"Rafe used to work for Sealife Development; put them down as employer when he bought his last house. I have a copy of the computer records back at my place."

"What'd Rafe do for them?"

Ford said, "I don't know; some kind of flying, probably. But one of the last things he said to me on the phone was that he had to meet some guys from Sandy Key. Maybe he had something on them and was trying to leverage it into cash. Or maybe he tried to sell them something and they decided to just take it."

"Some guys from Sandy Key?" Durell said. "That doesn't narrow it down much."

"Les, I worked on that body for twenty minutes and it seemed a hell of a lot longer. I tied the feet and hands so there would be no mistaking it for suicide. But they called it suicide anyway and, less than twenty-four hours later, cremated the body. Somebody is trying to cover up something."

Durell was nodding, thinking, saying "Okay, okay. ..."

Ford said, "Then you're convinced?"

"I'm convinced you tampered with evidence and that DeArmand's bunch got a little too cute trying to smooth it over."

"Rafe was murdered and you know it."

"What I know is, there's almost zero chance of proving it now. But the governor's office might like to hear about DeArmand and the Everglades County Medical Examiner's office. Dereliction of duty, criminal negligence, failing to hold a body forty-eight hours. You drop the right bomb and sometimes all kind of creatures start crawling out. Even killers. "

"I've collected some data on DeArmand. None of it is incriminating by itself, but, taken as a whole, it shows he's crooked and slippery . . . and dangerous. I've got stuff on Sealife Development Corporation, too. And the registration numbers from the boat I found on the island that day. I'll put it all in a letter and send it to your office."

Les Durell was looking at him, not reacting, a steady look of appraisal. "You know what I'm worried about? I'm worried about you. Some guy who thinks he's clever enough to bang around playing detective, manipulating people, making way too much noise. If DeArmand suspects someone is interested, he's going to cover his tracks so quick that even the governor's office won't be able to seal his records or get subpoenas out fast enough. And I don't want to spend a lot of time, do a lot of work, knowing someone is going to screw it all up making amateur mistakes. "

Ford shrugged. "I guess you'll have to take it on faith that I won't."

"I take God and the Democratic Party on faith, not you. Within an hour of you calling me, I'd done computer checks through the Federal Crime Information Center, the FBI, and a couple of others. Missed my tee-off time, and you know what I got for my trouble? Almost nothing. Bare bones stuff. You did your military training at Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, California. So I take that to mean you were a navy SEAL. You got a couple of college degrees while in uniform, so I take that to mean the navy invested extra money in you for a reason. You scored real high on your Civil Service exam and left the navy for no apparent reason. And that's it, buddy boy. I've run checks on priests that gave me more."

"I've lived a quiet life."

Durell said, "You think if I hadn't figured out what kind of quiet life, I'd be wasting my time talking to you right now? I don't know why Sanibel Island attracts so many retired CIA agents. You guys have meetings, put on dances? And there's another thing. "

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Maybe you didn't think of it, but if DeArmand's bunch was involved in the murder, they're going to be wondering who got to the body first and messed up their nice suicide. They're going to be wondering who called it in. They might even be looking for the guy."

Ford said, "I didn't work for the CIA."

"You're better off me thinking you did. Being an admitted felon and all."

"The next time we have a dance," Ford replied, "I'll make sure you and your wife are invited."

Ford stopped at the beach bar and had a beer with Harvey Hollins, Durell, and the rest of the guys, then left them there, old teammates hooting it up and replaying lost games. It was the way all funerals should end. Across the asphalt parking lot, his truck shimmered, saturated with midday sunlight; the door and steering wheel hot enough to cauterize flesh. He rolled down both windows and shifted to speed, his soaked shirt cooling in the wind off the road. He had Rafe's address book out. There were a couple of places Ford wanted to see.

The main street was Ocean View Drive, a slow business district four-lane: True Value Hardware, Burger King, Island Doctors Clinic, Cobb Cinema; everything built of concrete block, low to the ground. Sealife Development Corporation offices were just beyond, not quite to Sandy Key Mall, a one-story building behind a two-story fagade: broad lawn, a fountain with American and Canadian flags, a parking lot dividing the main building from two model homes, DELUXE VALUE AT MIDDLE CLASS PRICE. Billboard signs with open-house banners. There was a car in the lot, so Ford pulled in and a salesman in one of the model homes told him the corporate office was closed, being Monday—Sunday was their big day—but if Ford wanted a deal on a house or condo, now was the time to buy. Was he interested? Ford said he was—wishing there was some way to get inside the corporate building to see what kind of bric-a-brac the corporate elite used to decorate their offices.

The salesman wanted to know if he was interested in a beach condo. They had one or two new units, a very few used units. Or, if Ford wanted something a little higher priced, they'd just listed a split-level executive house on the seventh green of the country club. "Our Thomas Jefferson model," the salesman said. "Rarely available." Ford asked if he had a photo of the house—he'd be willing to follow him into the corporate building, if the salesman wanted to unlock. The salesman said no, he might have one back in the files and, when he went to check, Ford lifted the Realtors Only listing book and glanced through it. In the few minutes the salesman was away, Ford counted more than a dozen Thomas Jefferson executive models for sale. Every other listing was a beach condo.

Real estate sales seemed a little stagnant on Sandy Key, and Ford wondered if Sealife Development was having financial trouble.

He tried a few more ploys to get into the main building; none worked. If he wanted to check the office shelves for pre-Columbian art, he'd have to come another day.

Just off the main street, he found the Everglades County Sheriff's Department: three floors of brown stucco with mirrored windows and a chain-link lock-up out back where several white-and-green squad cars glittered in the sun. At the desk, he asked the stern woman in uniform and holster harness if Sheriff DeArmand was in. If he had been, Ford had already decided he would ask about employment. He wasn't.

What Ford was trying to do was get a feel for the place, a sense of the organization. He had fifteen single-spaced typed pages on Sealife Development back at his lab, but he wanted to flesh out the impression. He wanted a physical understanding of what he was up against. He bought a city map at a 7-Eleven and, using Rafe's address book, found DeArmand's home: a huge split-level version of the Thomas Jefferson executive model built on a sodded half-acre plot that butted up against a line of gray melaleuca trees that separated it from the golf course.

Ford slowed. Three cars in the drive: a new station wagon, a red Corvette, and a white, unmarked Ford squad car. DeArmand and wife seemed to be home. Ford considered stopping; thought about asking directions—"I'm looking for a Jefferson model on the seventh green"—but decided that was just a little too cute, too risky. He turned at the circular dead end, then headed back out to Ocean View. At a pay phone, he found the address for H. B. Hollins—it wasn't in Rafe's book—and drove to the other end of the island looking for 127 Del Prado Place: a white ranch house with two palm trees, an overgrown lawn, and a faded Honda Accord in the drive.

The bell didn't work, so he rapped on the door . . . waited . . . rapped again . . . waited . . . then followed the sound of thudding rock-n'-roll and the smell of chlorine to the screened pool behind the house.

The pool water was the color of lime Jell-O, and a woman there lay on her back in a lounge chair, pale pink thread of bikini bottoms tracing the curve of her buttocks, pink bra top in a tiny heap beside the chair, heavy breasts taut in the heat beneath a viscous coating of oil, arms stretched behind her head to form a pillow, eyes closed.

Helen Burke Hollins, Rafe's ex-wife, was spending this quiet afternoon at home.

Ford had to speak loudly over the music. "Hello? HELLO?"

The woman stirred lazily, reached for the drink on the table even before opening her eyes, saying "Come on in, babe—you're way early."

Ford opened the screened door and stepped into the muted sunlight, replying "Rafe's funeral didn't last as long as I thought."

Focusing her eyes, she said, "What?" Then: "Hey!" as she snared the bikini top and pressed it against her breasts, saying "Who the hell invited you in, buddy?"

Ford said, "You did," trying to smile as if embarrassed, averting his eyes. "I didn't realize you were . . . not dressed. I'm really sorry, Helen. I had no idea."

She had the top on now, squirming to get herself placed just so, standing to face Ford. "Who the hell are you, anyway? How do you know my name?"

Ford was still smiling at her—the kindly stranger who had done a dumb thing. He started as if to answer, then said, "Man, Rafe was sure right. You sure are pretty," as if a little in awe. Which was a lie. Helen Hollins had mousy bleached-blond hair, a chubby little-girl face with thin pouty lips beneath the pink lip gloss, a bulb nose, and a thick layer of brown belly fat that rolled over the elastic of her bikini bottoms. From the way Rafe had talked, Ford had expected better. But the lie softened her; he could almost see the hostility drain from her face. She said, "You knew Rafe?"

"Yeah. We were friends back in high school, then we did some work together down in Masagua. I thought I'd stop and see if you needed anything. I thought you might be at the funeral."

"Not goddamn likely." She was back on the lounge chair again, sitting, taking a gulp from the tall glass and shaking a nearly empty pack of cigarettes. "You must not of talked to Rafe lately if you thought I'd be there. We didn't part on what you'd call the best of terms. The bastard. "

Ford said, "Oh. I'm sorry. Rafe always spoke so highly of you. ..."

"That's a laugh."

"Well ... I didn't know. I hadn't seen him in more than two years, then I flew back into town just in time for another friend of ours to tell me about the funeral. It was quite a shock."

Exhaling smoke through her nose, using her thumb to flick at the filter of the cigarette, she said, "What did you say your name was?"

"Rafe used to call me Doc."

"And you worked with him down there in Central America? You know what he did?"

Ford said, "Same thing he did for Sealife Development, right?" Playing it coy, as if he knew the whole story.

That made her snort. "He sure as hell didn't make the kinda money he was making spraying mosquitoes for a bunch of spies."

"Different pay for different payloads, Helen."

"And that's what you do? You fly?"

"No. There's money to be made other ways down there."

She liked that, the inference that he had money; staring at him, her eyes moving from his thighs to his face in appraisal, she began to smile. "Rafe was the type to always pull out the high school yearbook, brag about the good old days. I remember your picture. The handsome one. Rafe used to mention your name. Told me all about the wild things you two did." She let that hang in the air for a moment before adding "He said the girls purely loved you two. Said you had something to offer."

Ford said, "Well, Rafe was always one to exaggerate."

In the long silence that followed, her eyes took on a sloe, sleepy look, never leaving Ford's eyes, and for the first time, Ford could feel more than see what Rafe had meant that morning on the phone.

That's what she does to guys....

A bead of sweat fell from her nose to her chin, then down onto her left breast, and she wiped it away with a slow massaging motion of her right hand. Ford felt a stirring in his abdomen, and he watched her meaty thighs squeeze, then spread slightly as she said, "Hey, I'm not being much of a hostess. Let me get you a drink or something. Gin and tonic? A beer?"

"Tonic and ice would be fine."

She was standing, not bothering to adjust the suit now even though a blood-pink half circle of areola peeked over the thin bikini bra. "You don't look like any Boy Scout to me. Maybe just a splash of gin? Or maybe something you don't put in a glass. "

"No thanks. I've got a long drive ahead of me."

She had a high, girlish laugh. "Long, huh?" and was off across the deck, wide hips swinging on the pendulum of narrow back, thigh fat echoing the impact of bare feet on cement, sliding the glass doors open without closing them behind her.

Ford released his breath, then laughed softly at himself. Loosen your belt, boy, and get some air to your brain.

In his life, Ford had met four, maybe five women who had affected him in exactly the same way; women with that same quality of animal sexuality, a sexuality so strong that it bypassed the conscious fabric of awareness and struck some deep visceral chord. It had little to do with beauty. None of the ones Ford had known had been model material. They had been tall and gawky, lean and sharp, or ripe and doughy like this one, Helen Hollins.

Rafe had said, "She smells like she wants it."

From inside the house, the music changed from heavy metal to mainstream rock as the woman switched stations and lowered the volume, then called out, "Hey, you—Doc. Give me a hand in here."

Ford stepped through the Florida room into the refrigerated chill of air conditioning, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. Plush carpet, heavy drapes, the chemical smell of synthetic fiber mixed with the odor of soiled clothes thrown on the couch and coffee table. Suburban decor beneath a layer of dirt. Then she was standing before him with that same sleepy look in her eyes, a bottle of tonic water in her hand, but giving him all her attention. "Can't get the damn thing open."

Ford took the bottle, opened it with an easy twist of the wrist, trying to keep his eyes off her but not succeeding, and she said, "I know—am I cold or just glad to see you?" as she turned, brushing her hand across the front of his pants, and that quick she was in his arms, her mouth on his, stripping off the bikini top as if Ford just couldn't do things fast enough, her nipples sharp, hard projectiles against his shirt. She was whispering "God, laying out there in that sun, with all that oil on me, God, how I need it," but Ford was already pushing her away, holding her by the shoulders, his own sexual wanting replaced by a growing revulsion.

He said, "Rafe said something about a little boy. You sure you have time for this?" hoping that would jolt her out of the mood.

It didn't. "He's gone, babe. Just you and me in this great big house," and she was back in his arms, touching him, touching herself, mouth open . . . but then a banging sound came from outside, the sound of a car door shutting. "Oh, shit, it's Robert!" and she was hurrying to get back into her bikini top. "Hey . . . you—"

Ford interpreted the blank expression. "Doc."

"Yeah, Doc. Why don't you walk on out by the pool, have a seat. I was expecting this friend of mine, only—" She was walking toward the front door, glancing at the small gold watch on her wrist. "—only the shithead's early."

Ford took the bottle of tonic and strolled back to the pool. He could hear the muted conversation coming from inside, then the woman led a man out onto the deck: a tall man, early thirties, with a tennis player's body to match the tennis shorts and sports shirt. Neatly styled brown hair, glasses, bookish face, and a cold look of disinterest until Helen said, "Robert, Doc and Rafe used to work together down there in Central America."

"Oh? Doing what?"

From the screened pool door he was about to open, Ford could see a blue Porsche in the drive. The judge who had railroaded Rafe had driven a Porsche; Judge Robert Alden, if his computer printouts were correct, a sizable stockholder in Sealife Development. Ford decided to take a chance. He said, "We were in the antique business," and got just the forced nonreac-tion he was hoping for.

"Ah, well . . . that must be exciting." Suspicious, but not willing to pursue it.

Ford said, "Depends on who you deal with," and stepped out into full sunlight as Helen took his arm, saying "Hey, wait—I'll walk you out. "

At his truck, she glanced back at the pool, then held her mouth up to be kissed, but Ford touched his finger to her lips. "You'd better save some of that for later." Which she misinterpreted, winking. "The guy 's kind of a dud in the sack, so give us an hour or so to talk, huh? We've got some business. Then come back and the two of us can get some real exercise."

Ford shut his door, started the truck, and smiled. "Don't bet your firstborn on it, lady. "

He was being followed.

The white car had come out of nowhere; must have been doing over a hundred, then slowed when it got on his truck's rear bumper. Looking in his rearview mirror, Ford recognized the white unmarked squad car and knew that the driver must be Sheriff Mario DeArmand. Image of a big, swarthy face, no hat . . . carrying a passenger with him, too; a man, but Ford couldn't make out the features.

Judge Alden must have gone straight to the phone.

Ford assembled a plausible story in his mind, expecting to be stopped.

But DeArmand didn't stop him; just followed half a car length off his bumper, giving him a message, then slowed and turned away as Ford crossed the county line.

Late that afternoon, Ford worked in his lab, finishing up the order for Minneapolis Public Schools, hoping the phone would ring. Once he had looked upon phones as little plastic invasions of privacy just waiting for an opportunity. Now he seemed chained to the damn thing.

When he finished injecting the last shark, he laid them all out in a row on the stainless-steel table, savoring his handiwork. Like a carpenter reveling in his tongue-in-grooves, he felt kind of proud. He put the unpackaged specimens in laminated barrier bags, added formalin, sealed the bags, and boxed the whole lot. Then he typed out an invoice—Sanibel Biological Supply's first—and taped everything nice and neat, ready for mailing.

It was after dark by the time he finished, and he decided to try Henry S. Melinski, the investigative reporter. It was possible—maybe probable—that Durell could get the governor's office interested in the malfeasance of Everglades County officials on his own. But Ford knew that while political appointees sometimes acted out of a sense of the righteous, they acted faster when publicity and righteousness were combined.

Melinski wasn't at the paper, so Ford tried the home number again. This time, Melinski answered. He sounded bored; real bored and hard to impress. Yeah, he knew about the suicide on Tequesta Bank, so what? Sure, it was murder-—this guy Hollins murdered himself, right? Not joking, but not serious either; a man who had to deal with a lot of cranks on the phone.

Ford said, "An anonymous caller told the police where to find the body. I was the anonymous caller."

Which knocked some of the boredom from his voice, but Melinski still wasn't impressed. So Ford told him that what he saw on the island and what the Everglades County Sheriff's Department concluded didn't match up, and now he was pretty sure the governor's office, probably the Florida Department of Criminal Law Enforcement, was going to investigate. Melinski said, "Pretty sure they're going to investigate? To me that means you probably had a couple of martinis, decided to call Tallahassee so you could act like a big shot, and the secretary you reached at

CLE was polite. What's this pretty sure bullshit? You're wasting iny time, mister."

"Major Les Durell didn't think I was wasting his time. He's the one who's going to contact the governor's office."

There were a couple of beats of silence. "Durell's in on this?" Impressed, but not wanting to show it.

"You'd better ask him. Or you could wait for him to call you."

"That'll be the day. When it comes to giving information, that guy's so tight you couldn't yank a pin out of his ass with a Land Rover. The question is, if Durell's involved, why do you want to let me in?"

"Because Rafe Hollins was a friend of mine. "

"So what? Friends send flowers. They don't call reporters."

"The governor's office investigates criminal matters, not civil. And Hollins got a raw deal the whole way around. The judge who presided at Hollins's divorce hearing is having an affair with Hollins's ex-wife. Judge Robert Alden. It may have started before the hearing, I don't know. She's a drunk and a drug user, but she got full custody of their son. Plus all the money. Hollins kidnapped his son after an eyewitness described to him how this judge hit the boy and bloodied his nose. The boy, by the way, is eight years old. The eyewitness called the police, and I'll give you one guess how that went."

"I don't need to guess. I know some of those wormy bastards on Sandy Key. They stick together . . . which is why we never hear about it when one of them slips up."

"They slipped this time. Like the way they handled Hollins's autopsy and cremation. Plus what I saw on the island."

"What did you see on the island?"

"I can't tell you. Major Durell said if the people involved suspected they were under investigation, the case would be ruined. I was sort of hoping you'd just concentrate on the way Rafe was railroaded in the divorce. When that boy's found, they sure as hell shouldn't give him back to his mother."

"Do you remember who you're talking to? I'm the reporter you called. You can trust me."

"Durell said specifically not to trust any reporters with the information. He said they'd print it way too soon, blow the whole thing—"

"Listen, buddy, I don't need some mystery voice or some Eagle Scout cop to tell me how to do my job. I've held more stories and hung more corrupt assholes—Hey, Durell didn't mention me specifically, did he?"

"Well, your name came up."

"That son of a—"

"He said he didn't want you looking over his shoulder."

"His shoulder? Well, it's a little bit late for that, chum. Let me tell you what I think. I think you and Durell are involved in a conspiracy to withhold state's evidence. There's a Sunshine Law in Florida, sport. Everything, and I mean everything, is public record. So you can tell me now, or I can hear it when you're on the witness stand, sweating out a felony charge."

"You don't know who I am."

"Shit. By tomorrow afternoon I'll know your shoe size."

"You can't trace this call—"

"Durell will tell me, Einstein. You think he's going to deny it after all I already know? He's tight, but he's not dumb."

"Hey, look, I don't want to get in any trouble. I just want to help Rafe. But if you're not interested in the way he was railroaded—"

"Do you have ears? Can't you hear? I'm interested, for Christ's sake. The corrupt judge, the druggie ex-wife, the father who wanted to protect his son so much that he was driven to kidnapping. Shit, it's great. But I want it all. And I want it all now."

Ford was leaning back in his office chair, feeling sneaky— and not pleased with the feeling—but he really had no damn choice. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were on the stereo doing "Wooden Ships," nice and soft. Ford started wagging his feet in time with the music, saying "Well, if you really think I should ..."

Within minutes of hanging up, Ford's phone rang. It was Les Durell. Ford said hello, then said, "Les . . . Les . . . Les . . . Les, let me have a chance to explain—" Then he gave up and just listened for a while, then he said, "Les ... I hope you don't have a blood pressure problem—" Then he listened some more.

Durell said, "I thought it was understood you wouldn't tell anyone else, damn it! Now I'm going to have that—that vulture on my ass! What I ought to do is just wash my hands of the whole business."

Ford said, "Take a breath, Les. Take a big breath. Even you need to breathe."

"I just can't believe you told Melinski. Just the damn stupidity of it!"

"The power of the press, Les. If Melinski's good, he can expose things the law can't touch and he can print evidence the courts would never entertain—"

"He could blow the whole damn thing by writing too soon!"

"He was your choice. You recommended him. I got his name from you, remember?"

"Like choosing my own poison. I don't like being tricked, Ford!"

"You weren't tricked. I don't work for you, Les. I'm a private citizen who can do what he damn well pleases. What pleases me is making sure the people who set up Rafe get squeezed and squeezed hard—"

"And I don't like being cornered! You know damn well I've got no choice but to follow this thing through now. Melinski knows all the terms: suppression of evidence, dereliction of duty, failing to arrest a confessed felon—you. If I don't find a way to hang DeArmand and his crew, that reporter asshole is going to spread my nuts above the fold right there on page one. You knew that. That's why you did it. At least have the decency to admit it."

"Okay. I admit it."

Durell groaned. "He's going to be goosing me along, second-guessing me every step of the way—"

"Do you really think he's dumb enough to print too soon?"

"That's not the point—"

"Come on, Les. Do you think there's a chance he'll break the story before you're ready?"

Durell was silent for a moment. Then he said, "No. He's a pain in the butt, but he's good. God, do I hate to admit that."

"Then you really don't have anything to worry about—if you do your job. Besides, all you have to do is collect enough evidence to convince the governor's people they should get involved. That shouldn't be too hard."

"Ford, do you have any idea how lucky you are you're talking to me on the phone and not face to face? I mean it. Do you have any idea?"

"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 stayed 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?"

"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 carefully, 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 the 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.

Some of the American princesses lost themselves because of love. Or because the promiscuity had gotten out of hand and, in their own minds, made it impossible for them to return. Or because of drugs.

With Wendy Stafford, Ford decided, it was drugs. Or maybe all of the above.

In Spanish, she said, "May I take your order?" then looked at him, pretending to focus, pretending to be surprised, and said in English, "Marion? Marion Ford? My God, it's you, isn't it!"

"Hello, Wendy."

"It is you!" Really playing it up, as if they'd met on the street or something. "Imagine meeting you after all these years. And here, of all places!" Giving the laughter a prim tone, chiding him for being in a whorehouse, letting her order pad drop onto the table as if her job was a secondary consideration; a society girl who was still above it all.

"You're looking well."

"Oh, no flattery, please. I'm a mess. I've been over on the Caribbean coast all week, working with the Miskito Indians, and you know what the conditions there are like. Then one of the poor girls who works here called me just as I got back to San Jose and asked me to fill in for her. What was I going to say?" Talking way too fast; a girl who had become very good with the quick lie; the blue eyes still darting, refusing to lock onto Ford's.

"I need to talk with you, Wendy. Privately."

"Now, you mean?

"Tonight, yes."

She picked up the order pad again, giving it meaning. "But that girl I told you about. I have to work for her. If it was just me, I'd leave right now." She laughed. "I mean, I'd have never even been here. But I don't want to get her into trouble."

Ford took a bill from his pocket, a fifty, which was more than twice what the girls charged, and slid it onto the table. "Maybe if you gave the floor manager this, he'd understand."

The woman stared at the money for a second, pretending to be slow on the uptake. "You mean . . . like I'm really one of the girls? Like you're paying for me?" The nervous laughter again. "Well, it might work. Like I'm one of the whores. Wait until I write Daddy about this. He'll be furious." A thirty-year-old woman still talking about her daddy as she took the money from the table, then stopped, thinking. "Do you just want to talk for a short time, Marion? I mean, if you want to pay for the whole evening, I think the girls charge more. From the way I've heard them talk, anyway." Lying smoothly as Ford took out another fifty, she said, "It'll go to my friend, of course. I just don't want to get her into any trouble."

"Still thinking about everyone but yourself, Wendy."

Ford watched as she crossed the deck and tried to hide herself in the shadows of the trees, giving the money to the floor manager then quickly stuffing her cut into the pocket of her jeans. Then she was back, pushing her hair from her shoulders as if she'd just gotten out of a fast boat, saying "Well, he fell for it. I've been bought and paid for. It's something my grandchildren will laugh about."

Outside, the air was balmy and the woman paused to light a cigarette, inhaling deeply, then said she didn't want to go anywhere for a drink, maybe her apartment would be better since it was so close, and Ford knew it was because the management would be checking up on her, making sure she wasn't doing a party for the price of one man.

The apartment was only two blocks away, a one bedroom walk-up above a butcher shop. He expected the place to be a mess, and it was: bed unmade, clothes thrown on chairs, and a cat meowing for food as they came in. The cat gave him a quick mental picture, a surge of Jessica, but he pushed it from his mind. There were posters on the walls, political posters calling for equality and to save the wildlife, and the air conditioner spackled into the wall had a condensation problem, peeling the paint away with rust streaks. The place smelled of the bad air conditioner and of the butcher shop below.

"Drink?" She was at the refrigerator, looking in, her face appearing somehow younger in the bleak light.

"No thanks, I'm fine."

"You won't mind if I do. God, the way they work us down there. Even on a slow night. " Then looked at Ford quickly as she took out soda water and let the door swing shut. "The way they work the girls, I mean. I don't see how they stand it." After tapping out another cigarette as she poured a tumbler half full of rum and added the soda, she took the chair across from him.

Ford said, "Three years ago I gave a friend of mine your name. He was a pilot and looking for work down here. His name was Rafe Hollins. He may have called himself Rafferty."

The abruptness of that made her take a drink, and she gave it some time, calculating, as if trying to remember. "I don't know, Marion. The name sounds familiar, but I'm not sure."

"Your name was in his address book. This address, so it had been updated. He said you told him why the Department of Immigration didn't have me listed as a temporary resident."

She smiled, leaning back with her cigarette. "Marion Ford, secret agent man. So how are things going at the ol' CIA? Invaded any small countries lately?"

"You were wrong then and you're wrong now, Wendy. I never worked for the CIA. Now I don't work for the government at all."

"Then why the detective routine? Why so free with the big bills if you just wanted to talk to me? Some people might consider that offensive, ol' buddy."

"Not if the questions are strictly business. Rafe Hollins was a friend of mine. He was flying Mayan artifacts into the States and making one hell of a lot of money at it. But he's dead now and it leaves a nice little void. I'd like to pick up where he left off, only I don't know who his contacts were. I thought you might be able to help—for a price, of course."

"Rafe's dead?" She reached for her drink again, not hurt by the news but surprised.

"Then you did know him?"

"He came to see me. It was interesting, having someone come to me using your name as a reference. At first I thought you might be trying to sneak in one of your CIA buddies on me. But then I figured he would have never used your name if he was. Besides, he just wasn't bright enough—not that your organization only takes sparkling intellects."

"Rafe was no genius." Playing along with Hollins's hick routine, finding it useful. "But even if I was involved with the CIA, why would I send an agent to court you?"

"Oh, come on, Marion. Don't play dumb. I've always been involved with the cause—" "Cause" said as if it should be capitalized; swirling her drink as she peered over it, starting to feel important and letting her guard drop just a little as the rum began to take hold. "You had to know that. You knew I was trying to get information for my people, that's why you told me so little.

Why do you think I slept with you those times? Like a game." This said with a nasty edge that she seemed to enjoy.

Ford shrugged. What he remembered about it was Wendy getting sloppy drunk, groping his leg under the table while fighting not to slide out of her seat, that's how ready she was. He said, "No, I didn't know. But it doesn't matter now."

"The cause still matters, Marion. The revolution. It matters to me." But the mechanical tone in her voice told him that it didn't; not really.

"And money doesn't?"

"My family's wealthy, don't you remember?"

Ford did a stage survey of the apartment with his eyes. "It looks to me like your family cut you off a long time ago, Wendy. And I'm here to make you a fair business proposition. If you provide me with names and locations of Rafe's contacts, the people who were providing him with the artifacts, I'll give you five percent of the net for the first year, two percent for the next two years. That should come to something like a hundred thousand over the three-year period, cash. Just for information. Tonight."

The blue eyes weren't darting now. "This doesn't sound like the Marion Ford I remember."

"We all change, Wendy. I got real tired of being one of the have-nots. Of taking orders from other people, cleaning up their messes while they cashed in. Idealism starts to seem a little childish if you get kicked around enough."

She said, "Whew, you don't have to tell me, buster," and Ford knew that he had hit the mark; watching her as she stood, stretched with the weariness of it all, then crossed the room toward the bottle. "A hundred thousand just for telling you Rafe's contacts?"

"And where I can find them. The information has to be good. It has to be accurate. Later on I may ask you for one or two other favors, but nothing big. Logistical stuff."

"How do I know you're not still working for the Company?

Maybe this is a scam so you can get me to help you smoke out my comrades up in the mountains."

"For one thing, I didn't quit my job. I was asked to resign. I was in Masagua and they decided I was trying to help Juan Rivera more than their puppet Balserio. They were right. Check around if you don't believe me." Which was a lie, but Ford knew she would never get around to checking.

She considered that for a moment, wanting to believe him, wanting the money. "My God, the All-American boy helping a communist. Maybe there's hope for the world after all. But so far I haven't heard you mention any advance. Just the promise of money, like I'm supposed to trust your fair bookkeeping."

"I'll give you . . . five hundred tonight, and send you another thousand if your information turns out to be good." Standing as he counted out the bills, putting them on the table in a stack in front of her.

She looked at the money, touching her tongue to her lips, as if she were hungry. Ford wondered how much heroin five hundred would buy in Costa Rica. Or cocaine. Yeah, cocaine: no track marks on her arms. In Costa Rica, it would buy a lot of cocaine.

"Do you have a map?" she asked.

"I have several maps. What country?"

"Masagua, of course."

Ford took out the good topographical map that Herrera had provided and spread it out over the money. She hunched over the map, touching it with her index finger, concentrating. "Have you ever heard of Julio Zacul?"

"I've heard of him. That's the guy you're worried I might sic the marines on?"

She looked up at him, still thinking of Zacul, a brief look of pure hatred. "For that bastard, you can call in the marines, the gurkhas, anybody you want. After what he did to me. The bastard. I was worried you were after Rivera."

"It sounds like you know Zacul pretty well."

"I should. I lived with him for three months. Followed that son of a bitch everywhere. I did things for him ..." She shivered slightly. "Things I can't believe I did. Things he made me do. He's sick, Marion. An animal—if you're one of his women, and there aren't too many of those. He prefers your type—or boys."

Ford felt his stomach turn, one of his boys, not wanting to hear any more but still listening. She went on a quick talking jag, close to losing control, telling him about this man she hated and why until Ford finally took her arm, calming her, and said, "Show me where he is, Wendy. Point to it on the map."

She downed the last of her drink, throwing her head back as if it were medicine. "It's just that I've never been the same since I was with Zacul. Bad things have happened to me. Like a curse. The things he made me do seem like a crazy bad dream now. Like those Mexican girls in the cheap films. The animal." She was still shaking.

Ford said, "Then you won't mind making some money off him."

"No, I won't mind at all. But I'd rather see him dead. When you find him, though, watch yourself. Rafferty flew authentic artifacts out for him, but Zacul sent a lot of fake stuff, too. He has his men make it. The first stuff he offers you will be fake. Just a warning. He'll judge what you know by the way you react to the first stuff he offers."

"Zacul was the only one Hollins was flying artifacts for?"

"I don't know. How should I know? But probably, yeah. He was the only guerrilla I know who dealt in that sort of thing. On a big-time basis, anyway."

It didn't take her long to describe how to get to where Zacul was probably camped. Ford knew that section of mountains very, very well. She kept saying Zacul would have her killed if he found out. Ford pumped all the information he could out of her, about the way Zacul arranged his camp, his routine, how best to deal with the man on a business basis, because now he was admitting to himself what he hadn't wanted to admit before: Julio Zacul had Jake Hollins.

As Ford folded the map to go, the woman stood up, swaying slightly, a little drunk, and leaned against the bathroom doorway, her head tilted to one side. "Do you have to leave so soon?" Trying to look seductive, but looking sad and defeated instead. "I was going to take a shower. A nice long, hot shower. Maybe you'd like to join me. I can wash your back. You've already paid for it, you know."

Ford said, "I can't, Wendy. I'm in a hurry," after repressing the urge to say "Maybe another time—when I'm feeling real dirty."

He was glad he didn't say it. As he opened the door, she was sitting on the couch four rums gone, knees together, arms pressed over her breasts, and she said in the voice of a dazed little girl, "I'm not pretty anymore, am I, Marion?" Crying, too, but not making any noise; looking straight ahead, her eyes glassy.

Ford set the satchel on the steps, went to her, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "It's time for you to go home, Wendy. You should take that money and buy a ticket home."

"They'd never take me now, Marion. On the phone Daddy said—"

"On the phone is one thing, Wendy. He can't look into your face and refuse you."

"Do you think so, Marion? Really?"

"I want you to call tonight, Wendy. Will you do that?"

She had still made no reply when he closed the door behind him.

Tomlinson was calling "What? What? Who is it, man?"

And Ford, standing outside Tomlinson's room, said, "Let's go. It's time to get going."

"It's morning already, man?"

"Close enough."

Tomlinson swung the door open. He was wearing salmon-colored long johns—long johns? Yep—standing there with his scraggly hair and beard, digging a fist into his eyes. "Christ, Doc, it's still dark outside."

It was just after midnight, 12:08 A.M.

"You know what they say: Early bird gets the worm."

"Feels like I just went to sleep."

Ford said, "I've got the Land Cruiser all loaded. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes."

"Far out, man. Far out. Up with the farmers. ..."

TWELVE

On a rhumb line it was 150 miles to the border of Masagua, but the mountain roads of Costa Rica, though they were good roads, followed no line. They followed rivers through the high cloud forests, and Ford drove while Tomlinson slept beside him, the lights of the vehicle tunneling through fog into the darkness. After three hours the terrain began to change. The rain forest began to draw in, thicken, and the road narrowed, like driving through a cave. He had to use the wipers to clear the windshield of condensation and, with the windows down, he could smell the cool hollows and the tannin-stained rivers. He could smell the jungle and knew Masagua was near.

Then there was a sign that said it was ten kilometers to the border station, and Ford slowed until he found an old logging trail and turned off the road, bouncing and jolting. He shut off the engine and pushed the door open so that the dome light was on. The chirring of frogs was like one long scream in the darkness.

Tomlinson stirred, awakening slowly.

Ford reached into the backseat and unzipped the leather satchel. He took out the forty-five-caliber automatic and waited. He waited until he was sure Tomlinson was awake, then he punched in a clip, slid the breach back, and watched Tomlinson's eyes flutter and finally open wide, seeing the pistol.

"Holy shit!"

"Take it easy."

"What's with the gun, man? There fucking tigers around here or something? Restless natives?"

Ford said, "We need to have a talk, Tomlinson."

"Talk, yeah, sure." Getting as far from Ford as he could, his back against the door, not frightened but nervous with a pistol between them in the narrow confines of the Land Cruiser. And trying hard to wake up quickly. "Christ, watch it, that thing could go off. You got bullets in there?"

"Just seven. The border guards are up ahead. About six miles."

"Border guards ... I thought we were going to bribe the bastards. Hey, Doc, I got to be frank—I don't like this gun business. And bullets, too. Guns give me the heebie jeebies."

"But we need to have a talk. I keep wondering why you're so quick to follow along, Tomlinson. I keep wondering why you don't ask me more questions about this trip." Holding the forty-five in his right hand, not pointing it at Tomlinson but keeping it between them.

"Questions?" Looking really uncomfortable now, Tomlinson had begun to tug at his hair, as if he were trying to come up with a quick question or two. "Well, you're an awfully early riser—I was going to ask you about that, but we all have our quirks." He paused, looking at the pistol . . . then at Ford. "That's what this is all about? You want me to ask more questions? I mean, we can definitely work something out in that regard. It's your vacation, man. I'll try to help brighten it up any way I can."

Ford studied him for a moment, doubting if anyone so smart could be so vacant. He said, "I didn't come for a vacation, I came to get the boy."

Tomlinson nodded quickly, anxious to understand. "I know,

I know. Little boys are nature's gentlemen. I was just joking about the vacation thing. You know, trying to lighten things up."

"There's something else you should know. One year ago I helped steal the Kin Qux Cho from the Presidential Palace in Masagua."

That made him sit up. "The book, man. You stole the book that has all the old Maya ceremonies in it? Rituals of the Lake? You?"

"That's right, me."

"Come on, now you're joking, right? Like April Fools, only it's not—hey, maybe it is April. I've been losing track—"

"It's no joke, Tomlinson, and this is no game."

"Goddamn, Doc, you're really serious, aren't you?" Tomlinson was looking at him, the slow smile turning into delight. "You, a thief; who in the hell woulda thought it? There are depths to you, man. Stuff I never guessed was there. And you really know where the book is? Damn, I'd give anything to see that book."

Ford rested the gun on the gear shift console, within easy reach of Tomlinson. "You'll never get much closer. It's only about three miles from here, hidden away. But I can't let you see it." Then he left the gun there, taking his hand away, letting the lie settle; turning away, as if looking out the window, but watching Tomlinson.

"Hell, man, if you say you can't, you can't. Just seems a damn shame, me being a scholar, that's all. Maybe I could see it later?"

"No. No way. Sorry. I think you'll be a help getting the boy. But I can't let you get involved any more than that."

Tomlinson was assuming an expression, contemplating, but he had still made no move toward the gun. Ford said, "I've got to take a whiz. Be right back." He stepped out into the jungle and the car door swung shut so that now he could see only Tomlinson's outline. He stood behind the vehicle for a time, watching as Tomlinson slowly leaned forward, reaching for the pistol. Ford crouched slightly and, in three steps, was at the passenger's side. He pulled the door open, but before he could do anything Tomlinson swung the automatic toward him . . . holding it with two fingers, like it was a soiled diaper, and said, "Doc, I'll help you with the boy, but first you've got to agree to something." Ford stood motionless, waiting, as Tomlinson added, "You've got to agree to put this thing someplace where I can't see it. Bad vibes, man; very bad vibes. It really disturbs the fucking thought processes. And take the bullets out, too."

"You want me to hide the gun." Ford's heart was pounding, the adrenaline really pumping through him, even though the automatic contained an empty clip. Empty weapon or not, it would have gotten nasty had Tomlinson tried to force him to retrieve the book.

Tomlinson said, "Right. I hate to be so firm, but this business about shooting border guards is just asking for bad karma. You shoot a border guard and, next thing you know, the whole trip is going to start getting weird. Take my word on this one." Tomlinson was holding the automatic by the barrel, wanting Ford to take it.

Ford said, "Tomlinson, let me just ask you outright: Did the CIA send you to keep an eye on me?" as he accepted the gun back.

"The CIA?" Acting as if he were giving the question serious consideration, but in a patronizing way, like dealing with a crazy man. "Ah, no-o-o-o, but it would be an easy mistake to make. Could happen to anybody."

Ford stared at him for a moment. "You don't work for them, do you? You really are exactly what you appear to be. Amazing."

"See what happens when you think about killing border guards?" Tomlinson said kindly. "It sets all the negative ions in motion. Really destructive stuff, man. I've got some books you should read."

"Okay," he said. "All right. I believe you."

"See, we all got auras, man—these sort of electrical fields around us, only you can't see them—"

"Auras, right, uh-huh." Relieved, Ford put the automatic back in the briefcase, gathered himself for a moment, then took out a fake passport as Tomlinson rattled on.

"These auras are made up of ions; positive, negative, you know, basic physics man. "

"Right. Hey, give me your passport for a second."

Saying, "Now, normally you have a real positive aura. I mean the best. That's why people are attracted to you." Tomlinson fished his passport out of his back pocket and handed it to Ford. "The moment I met you, I thought, 'Now this guy's been down some unmarked channels. A real karmic hipster. "

Ford said, "Gee, thanks," as he used a knife to cut the photograph from Tomlinson's real passport and then trimmed the yellow masking to size. Tomlinson was watching now, interested, saying he was real impressed the way Ford did that, as if he'd done it before, and don't be hurt about his asking no questions, he'd ask a lot more from here on out.

The border guards waved them through with a quick glance at the passports, more interested in collecting the tourist tax, which Ford knew they would pocket, and getting back to sleep. There was a village beyond: tin-roofed shacks and shabby bars, then more jungle. The roads were bad now, rock and mud. It was the rainy season and the bridges not washed away were bare planks thrown across gullies. Twice Ford had to get out and sound the depth of a creek before driving through it. Then Tomlinson decided that should be his job, wading into the next creek up to his beard before calling back they'd have to find a better place to cross. Between creek crossings, Ford told Tomlinson the truth about the Kin Qux Cho.

"Then you really don't know where it is?"

"Not for sure."

"Then why did you lie to me, man?"

"It was a test, for God's sake!"

"Goddamn, some test. Next time just send me a telegram saying my parents got blown up by Iranians or something, but leave the guns at home."

"I had to be sure."

"That sort of thing is bad for the heart. I almost wet my drawers."

"Okay, okay, just drive."

Tomlinson drove in silence and, after a long time, asked, "Did that woman, Pilar what's-her-name, really do that to you? Coitus interruptus, armed-guard style?"

"Just afterward. Almost like she pressed a button beside the bed. I didn't even have time to get my clothes."

"What a bitch, man."

Ford said, "No. She had her reasons."

"You're sticking up for her? You must still be in love with the lady, man." When Ford did not answer, Tomlinson said gently, "It'll pass, Doc. It may not seem like it now, but it'll pass. I know. I've been through it."

Ford said, "I'd like that."

Much later, replying to a long monologue by Tomlinson, Ford asked, "And that's when they institutionalized you?"

Tomlinson said, "Yeah, they had to. It's hard to believe now, but for a while there I was what you might call insane. ..."

The half moon was waxing, but the jungle seemed to lure in, then absorb all light, so that the frail moon above only emphasized the darkness. The roads became narrower, pale ribbons in the overhanging foliage, ascending, always climbing, and at the top of each ridge the forest spread away in striations of silver mist with shapes of gigantic trees protruding through the haze. Sometimes, on a far mountainside, Ford could see lights glittering in tiny coves: campfires of Mayan villages. The fires touched the air with woodsmoke long after they had receded into the gloom. Ford took the wheel as the eastern horizon paled and the sun, still unseen, illuminated the high forest canopy with citreous light.

At 10 A.M. Ford said, "I think we're almost there." He had been following one of the maps, marking their progress, while Tomlinson sat peering out the window, pointing at monkeys and wild parrots.

"This guy Zacul's camp?"

"No. A place where we can get breakfast. A little village called Isla de Verde. I want to see someone else first."

"You know best, man. I just hope they sell corn flakes. I have corn flakes every morning."

Isle de Verde had once been an agricultural outpost, a settlement of people drawn into the forest so that they might get rich tapping chicle trees and selling the sap to U.S. chewing gum manufacturers. No one ever got rich, and when the manufacturers found a synthetic chicle, which was cheaper, the agricultural outpost became just an outpost, a clearing in the jungle with bamboo huts and plywood tiendas where stray dogs dozed in the road. As Ford drove down the mud street, people turned from their work to watch, then turned away again, showing no expression. Unlike the more traditional Maya of the higher mountains, the villagers here wore Latino clothing: simple white pants or pastel skirts, light blouses and scarves. But the high cheeks, dark eyes, and earth-toned faces were unmistakable: pure Mayan.

In a village such as this, merchants did not need signs because everyone knew what was to be bought and where. The place where a meal could be purchased was a simple bamboo chickee with a tin roof and bottles of beer and Coca-Cola on display in the front window. Ford knew of the restaurant because he had been in Isla de Verde several times before, but coming always from the north, not the south. He parked the Land Cruiser beneath a tree where two sway-backed horses and a goat grazed.

The proprietor—a slender man with the knowing eyes of a priest—acknowledged Ford with the slightest of nods, remembering him but saying nothing, motioning them toward the smaller of two tables in the tiny room. "You would like coffee? Or perhaps a beer?" Standing there with a towel over his forearm like the maitre d' of a great hotel.

Ford said, "Coffee, yes. And a meal. A breakfast, if it is not an inconvenience."

"It is my great pleasure."

"Perhaps there is something else you could do for us."

The proprietor shrugged, a noncommittal gesture. "If it is possible."

Ford took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. "I would like this message delivered to a friend of mine. A man who lives in the hills. I will pay you and the messenger for your trouble, of course. "

The proprietor took the paper, glanced at the name on the outside, then stuffed the note in his pocket as if it were a matter of indifference to him. "I will bring the beverages," he said, then walked quickly to the kitchen.

Tomlinson said, "I hope he brings a menu, too."

Ford said, "I don't think they have menus here. I can check if you want."

"You guys lose me, the way you jabber away in Spanish like that. I've got to learn the language, man. I've got to learn those glyphs better. I've got so damn much work to do on this project of mine, it's great. You know, stimulating." He looked at Ford. "No corn flakes, huh?"

"I wouldn't get my hopes up."

"Did you already order?"

"You pretty much take what he brings you. It'll be good, though."

It was, too: fried plantains, eggs, black beans, rice, and thick slices of bacon. Tomlinson didn't eat the bacon—he didn't eat flesh, he said—but he ate everything else. Then they went for a walk, past the neat houses with their swept lawns, down to the river where they watched children playing in the sun while their mothers washed clothes on the rocks, knotting and beating the clothing as women had for a thousand years.

Ford never saw the messenger the proprietor sent but, an hour later, four men on horseback rode into the village towing two saddled horses behind. They wore T-shirts, not uniforms, but each carried an automatic rifle and the lead man said to Ford, "You are to come with us, Señor."

Ford said, "We have a vehicle. We can follow."

"No, Señor. You are to ride with us. It is his wish."

Tomlinson said he'd never been on a horse before and Ford said it was a little like being on a sailboat, only drier—but Tomlinson, upset by the weapons, did not smile. They rode single file into the mountains, then stopped on a ridge above a shallow valley. Below lay the shapes of tents hidden among the trees and a huge clearing covered with camouflaged netting. Tomlinson whispered, "What they hiding under there, man? Artillery? A landing strip, maybe?"

Ford said, "Watch. Watch the soldiers. They're rolling the netting back now."

There was part of a grass runway covered by the camouflage. So were two mobile units of antiaircraft artillery, old Yugoslavian M65s from the looks of them. Mostly, though, the camouflaged netting was being used to hide a baseball diamond.

THIRTEEN

Dressed in khaki fatigues and cap, his black beard showing splotches of gray, Juan Rivera stood outside the HQ tent and threw his arms wide apart, smiling as Ford rode up. "Do my eyes deceive me? Is it the great Johnny Bench? Is it the ugly Yogi Berra? No . . . no, it is my old comrade Ford come to help us in our time of need." Joking with Ford, but performing for the men around him, too, which was Rivera's way: a showman, always speaking to a crowd even when there was no crowd to hear.

Ford said, "It's been a long time, General Rivera," enduring the guerrilla leader's bear hug, but relieved, at least, that Rivera hadn't had him arrested. With things the way they were in Masagua, there had been no way for Ford to know in advance how he would be received.

"You and your friend are hungry? I will have a meal prepared—"

"We ate in the village, General."

"Then you are in need of a bath. Or sleep, perhaps? You have traveled far—"

"A bath would be nice, but later. After we've talked."

"A woman, then?" His arm thrown over Ford's shoulder, leading him toward the headquarters tent, Rivera was speaking confidentially now, making a show of being a host who anticipated all needs. "Finding a healthy woman in this time of many diseases is not such an easy thing, but I have several here you may find pleasing. Volunteers, dedicated to the cause. " His wink was both humorous and wicked. "I have been accused of choosing my volunteers for their beauty, not their brains, a thing I will not argue."

Ford said, "You are widely known for your taste in women, General, but I'm not in need right now. Thanks anyway."

Rivera stopped and put his hands on Ford's shoulders. "You are fit, then? You are well?"

"I'm just fine."

"And your friend? Forgive me, but I am wondering why a man such as you is traveling with this . . . this hippie." Meaning Tomlinson, who was back with the horses. The people of Central America still distrusted the long-haired late Sixties wanderers they remembered as ne'er-do-wells and bums, and Rivera, Ford could see, wasn't eager to extend his hospitality.

"He's a business associate. He's fine, too."

"Then you require nothing?"

"I would like to talk with you—"

"Hah! It is always business with you! It is a bad thing, a very bad thing to think of nothing but work." They were inside Rivera's tent now: a high room of canvas with Coleman lanterns hanging from wooden supports and sandbags piled chest high around the inside perimeter. Ford stood while Rivera went behind a great metal desk and began to rummage through a box, but still lecturing. "You should use me as your example, Marion. I am about to lead my army into a great revolution. I am about to assume command of my beloved country. I have a thousand things to do; ten million people depend on me, but I make sure that I take the time for recreation." Rivera took something from the box and placed it on the desk: a pale-gray uniform, folded. A baseball uniform. Then he added a hat and a catcher's glove to the pile. "This hippie friend of yours, does he play the game, too?"

"You want to play baseball? Now?"

"In honor of your arrival. Unfortunately, my best team is out on maneuvers—yes, even my finest players bear arms for the cause. We will make do with reserves and scrimmage my third team, me pitching, you catching. This hippie friend of yours, do you think he is a player of quality?"

"I doubt if Tomlinson's ever touched a ball, but I really don't think—"

"Ah, then he will not need a uniform. He will play on the opposing team. It is only fair that the third team be handicapped in some way since my own team is not at full strength."

Ford said, "Juan, I haven't played since the last time I was here—" Dropping the formal address with only the two guards outside the tent to hear.

"Tut-tut, Marion, no excuses. I have something to show you. Something new. Very important!" Rivera lowered his voice, sharing a secret. "It is a new pitch, my friend. A pitch I have developed which, I say in all modesty, no hitter in the American major leagues could touch. But I am anxious for you to judge. You, my favorite catcher, will evaluate this pitch of mine fairly."

"The reason I'm here, Juan—it can't wait while we play nine innings."

"Just seven, then. A short game." Looking at his watch, smiling through his beard, Rivera said, "Did you know that the Giants of New York once drafted Fidel as a pitcher?"

Fidel as in Fidel Castro, and Ford did know because Rivera mentioned it every time they met. Rivera continued, "Do you realize that no American major league team has ever made me—probably the greatest pitcher in all of Central America— even the smallest of offers? Does that not seem odd?"

Ford said, "We've talked about this before, Juan. I think it's because major league scouts shy away from war zones."

"It is purely politics," Rivera countered severely. "The capitalist dogs of your country have conspired against me so that I may not spread my influence through fame earned playing your national sport." He looked at Ford, calculating. "Do you still count the manager of the Royals of Kansas City as one of your friends?"

Ford said, "He managed the Royals' Triple-A team and now he's with Pittsburgh, in the majors. Yes, we still stay in touch."

"In the major leagues?" Rivera wagged his eyebrows, impressed.

"Yes. Gene Lamont. A third-base coach."

"Then I will leave it to you to judge this new pitch of mine. If you are excited and feel it necessary to contact your friend who coaches in the major leagues, I will not object. But I warn you, I am no longer interested in their offers—though, even at the age of thirty-seven, I feel certain I could win twenty games."

Ford played along. "But General, if this new pitch is as effective as you say, I will feel obligated. The game of baseball makes certain demands upon its fans."

Rivera was stripping off his shirt, showing his massive hairy chest. "Perhaps. But I warn you again, their offers are a matter of complete indifference to me. I live now only for the revolution."

"The Pirates of Pittsburgh will be disappointed. As will the Dodgers of Los Angeles. "

Rivera stopped undressing, one leg still in his pants. "It is possible that your friend might communicate the information to the Dodgers of Los Angeles?"

"Both teams are in the National League, and you know how baseball players love to talk. "

The guerrilla leader considered this for a moment, then threw his pants into the corner for his orderly to pick up. "If the Dodgers of Los Angeles are to be disappointed, you will leave it for me to disappoint them. You will communicate only what you see. It is not necessary for them to know I live only for the revolution and would refuse their offer anyway."

Ford said, "As you wish, General Rivera," and followed one of the guards to his billet, where he suited up.

Monkeys watched them warm up. They came down out of the high forest canopy, a whole tribe of howler monkeys hanging from the lower branches, babies clinging to their mothers' backs, big males swinging by their tails and throwing small green mangoes, imitating the players.

"That one monkey has a better arm than I do," Ford said to Tomlinson. Tomlinson was playing catch with him, handling the glove and throwing better than Ford had expected. He was pretty smooth; he'd played the game, which was another surprise.

Tomlinson said, "What I don't understand is why you get a uniform and I don't." Like a child slighted, and now he was throwing harder as if to prove he had talent enough to deserve the gray double-knit suit with MASAGUAN PEOPLE'S ARMY emblazoned in blue on the front. "I played in high school, man. I played two years in college. I mean, this was my sport before I got interested in substance abuse."

Ford said, "I'll give you my uniform if you promise not to get any hits off Rivera. No joke. Strike out if you can. But don't make him mad by getting a hit. We want to get this game over with fast, and then I'm going to have to ask him for a favor."

"It's just that it seems a little arbitrary, putting me on a team without uniforms just because he doesn't like long hair. It's not in keeping with Marxist-Leninist philosophy to choose a ball team that way. How can the guy pretend to be a communist?" As if he hadn't even heard Ford. Still indignant, still throwing hard, Tomlinson was already being drawn onto competitive avenues, and Rivera wasn't even on the mound yet.

"I'm surprised a Zen Buddhist could get upset about a game."

"The Buddha woulda been a baseball fan, believe me."

"Ah."

"Baseball is more than a game, man. It's a ceremony."

"Oh."

"All the people who have ever played baseball are linked by virtue of having dealt with predictable game situations in unpredictable ways, each person trying to resolve random events within an orderly sphere of balls, strikes, and outs—"

"Boy oh boy."

"Plus there's the scorebook: a historical document more accurate and succinct than, say, the Old Testament. All these thousands and thousands of scorebooks all over the world forming an unbroken ceremonial chronicle far more detailed than, say, Ireland's Book of Kells—"

"Tomlinson, all we want to do is finish the damn game without offending Rivera. He's a baseball fanatic. He takes it very seriously."

"Well, I'll try . . . but I'll feel like a heretic."

Tomlinson didn't have to try too hard to look bad, nor did anyone else on the opposing team: a ragtag bunch of teenagers and men in khaki who played with enthusiasm but not much skill.

Rivera could pitch. He'd lost some velocity on his fastball, but it still moved; still tailed in on right-handed hitters. He had a fair curve, a split-fingered sinker, plus his new pitch, the one he said he had invented, a one-fingered knuckleball he threw side-armed so that it broke like a screwball. He presented an imposing figure on the mound, too: six feet tall, probably two twenty, bushy black beard and in full uniform except for the fatigue cap he always wore, lighting a fresh El Presidente cigar between each inning. In a potential strikeout situation, Rivera would call Ford out to the mound. "You probably do not realize it," he would say, "but this man at the plate hits as well as the great George Brett." Ford would look back to see some stringy kid who didn't look old enough to drive. "Watch how I handle Señor Brett." Then he would kick back and strike the kid out looking. Another hitter was as good as Pete Rose. Another was as powerful as Mantle. Tomlinson reminded him of the great DiMaggio. Rivera struck them all out, using the knuckleball, lost somewhere between fact and fantasy like a child playing alone in the backyard, winning the World Series in the last of the ninth on this remote jungle field.

Doubling as umpire, Ford moved the game along as quickly as he could, giving Rivera every close call. But he still found pleasure in being behind the plate, calling pitches, blocking low stuff, talking to the hitters. The knuckleball was hard to handle, especially on third strikes, and his concentration drew him deeper into the game, like a kid again, for Tomlinson was right in a way: a world seen through the bars of a catcher's mask is timeless, unchanging, and for those few innings Ford became a creature whose life had been interrupted by nothing more than twenty-five years of passed balls and stolen bases. Better yet, he hit two singles and a double, driving in three runs.

Going into the top of the seventh, Rivera had walked four but had a no-hitter going, and Tomlinson came up with two out.

"It's rally time," Tomlinson was saying, swinging three bats like he meant business. "No more Mister nice guy. Rivera has a ten-run lead and one little hit can't hurt."

Ford said in a low voice, "He'd be happier with a no-hitter. Let's try and keep the general happy."

"Doc, I got my own integrity to consider. I really think I can tee off on this guy."

Ford thought for a moment, then said, "Okay. Maybe you're right. Hit away."

Tomlinson did, too; caught a tailing fastball fat and drove it deep, but not deep enough. The centerfielder tracked it to the camouflage netting, which had now become the outfield fence, leaped and made a nice catch, stopping the home run and saving the no-hitter. Rivera seemed to love the moment of suspense more than anyone; got Tomlinson in one of his affectionate bear hugs, leading him back to Ford at homeplate, saying "It took the great DiMaggio to solve the mystery of my fastball, but even he did not solve it entirely!" delighted with the last out of his no-hitter. Ford told the general he had pitched a superb game and that he was anxious to communicate the information to his friend with the Pittsburgh Pirates, but first he had important business in Masagua. And Rivera, who was speaking English to Tomlinson, talking baseball, said to Ford in Spanish, "If there is any way I can hasten the completion of your assignment, you need only ask. You did not tell me this hippie friend of yours is not only a great baseball player but also a student of the game. He knows almost every statistic for all of those who have pitched for the Red Sox of Boston!"

Four hours later, after Ford had bathed and eaten and slept, he walked out of his tent to see Rivera and Tomlinson—both of them in uniform now—still talking baseball, sitting beneath a tree while howler monkeys rattled the limbs above.

Rivera said Ford's plan to rescue the kidnapped child might work, but it was also very dangerous. "You do not know this man Julio Zacul. You do not understand him. If he does not believe your story he will have you killed. You will get no second chance. I am not a selfish man but, if you are killed"—Rivera made an empty, open-handed gesture—"who will tell the third-base coach with the Pirates of Pittsburgh about the great no-hitter pitched by me?" Smiling, but not kidding; actually concerned about Ford's scouting report.

They were sitting at a table outside Rivera's tent. The sun was behind the mountain and they talked in the fresh wind of the coming daily rainstorm, speaking in English for Tomlinson's benefit while orderlies took the dinner dishes away. The camouflage netting had been rolled from the clearing and several hundred of Rivera's men performed marching drills, their foot cadence echoing through the trees. Rivera watched his men as he talked, taking pleasure from their discipline, taking pleasure in the cigar he had just lighted.

He said, "Julio Zacul could have been one of my most gifted lieutenants—not most trusted, mind you. Most gifted. He came to me straight from the University of San Cristobal in Peru, an outstanding engineering student who said he was prepared to give his life to the revolution. This was six, perhaps seven years ago. Yes, this is the way he looked in those days." Rivera picked up the photograph Herrera had provided Ford, studied it for a moment, then spun it back onto the table. The Julio Zacul of college days looked neither like a guerrilla leader nor a killer. He had a lean, aesthetic face that was slightly feminine with long lashes, high soft cheeks, and dark eyes that looked neither fierce nor menacing, just bored, as if he wanted the photographer to hurry up and finish. It was one of those gaunt, good-looking faces out of an Arrow Shirt ad; a young man already in control who was anxious to get started; anxious for more.

Rivera said, "He has changed since then, of course. He is heavier by seven or eight kilos. His hair is longer, almost to his shoulders, but still very black. He has a scar here." Rivera touched his cheek, making a crooked line. "But he still has that soft look, like a child or a girl nearing her readiness. Though I am a man of the world, it is a thing that always bothered me, that softness in his face, like a young woman. He came to my camp with a half-dozen of his friends from the university, all enthusiastic about the revolution. He was so obviously the leader that I immediately trained him as an officer. Within six months he commanded his own company with these six friends as his subordinates. They lived together, Zacul and these men. That they were more than friends soon became evident, but, as I said, I am a man of the world and such relationships trouble only small minds. Zacul led his company brilliantly, though neither he nor his subordinates were courageous fighters. They preferred the techniques of terrorism, the coward's way. I would have banished him from my camp when I first realized this, but I had no choice. I needed men." Rivera looked at Ford. "You may remember that six years ago was a time of much fighting, much ugliness in this country."

Ford said, "Yes. I was in South America at the time, but I remember."

Rivera nodded as if he could hold Ford responsible, but chose not to. "It was during that fighting that I began to hear stories about Zacul and his men. War is not a pretty thing and all of us involved in war have done things we would rather not discuss. Someone once said that an immoral act is anything we feel bad about afterward. That is not true. I have often felt bad after doing things that needed to be done. In my mind, an immoral act is anything that makes us feel shame. I have never been ashamed of the things war demanded I do. I have felt bad about them, but I have never felt shame. But there were things that Zacul and his men did that made me feel ashamed. Many things—in the way he tortured prisoners, in the way he dealt with the women of the enemy, in the way he dealt with the enemy's children. When I finally confronted him with these stories, he laughed at me. He called me a weak old man. He called me this in front of many of my people." Rivera signaled to the orderly, handed him his empty coffee cup, and asked for beer.

Ford was trying not to smile. "What happened after you hit him?"

Rivera shrugged. "You are right. I did hit him. He has the look of a woman and he is a coward, but his men were watching.

There was a fight, of course. His men stayed out of it because my men would have killed them. It was a long fight and very painful. Zacul left with the scar I have described. It was nearly a week before I could hold a baseball. I was surprised to hear later that he lived." Rivera looked at Tomlinson. "He was not a fan of the game. He refused to play because he said the game originated in the United States."Tomlinson had been following along attentively. "Hell no, a guy like that wouldn't play. This Zacul sounds like the original conehead to me."Rivera said, "I have not seen him since that day, nor his six friends. It is a matter of pride that very few other men followed him. His soldiers hated him. He used fear to command. Since that time, though, he has gathered many other troops so that now the strength of his army equals mine. Zacul is the only reason that I am not now sitting in the Presidential Palace in Masagua. I know I must first defeat him. He knows that he must first defeat me. We both wait like great cats, gauging the other before we stalk the prey. I am confident, though, that my army will prevail. We have always performed with honor on and off the field of battle. But Zacul does not know the meaning of the word. Fate will play a hand, do not doubt. We will emerge victorious. Soon I will live in Masagua City, in the Presidential Palace. I will be the servant of my people."

"As a communist," Ford said. He was not smiling now, holding the fresh beer the orderly had brought.Rivera did not reply for a moment. Then he said, "Have you watched my men marching? Have you seen how they are armed?"Ford had, of course, noticed. Many of them carried Soviet weaponry, but older arms: AK-47s with the scythe clips and wooden stocks, plus odds and ends of other eastern bloc ordnance.Rivera said, "There was a time when the Soviets gave me their full support. Now it is Zacul's men who carry their new weaponry. I do not know how he won their attention, but it doesn't matter. Other than that, I will say no more to you about my intentions. Understand, you are my friend, but you also once worked for a government that may even now be planning my destruction. Perhaps you still do."

That raised Tomlinson's eyebrows; he looked at Ford quizzically as Ford said, "No, I don't—but you have no way of knowing for sure. I understand that. But your intentions are important because, in asking you to help, we'll also be helping you. I don't care anything about politics. You know that. But I'm not politically unaware."

"If I enter the Presidential Palace," Rivera said carefully, "it will not be as a puppet. Besides, communism is dead in the Soviet Union. Perhaps it is dead all over. It is a truth that brings me great sadness." He paused. "This much I will tell you even though I truly do not see how you can be of help. "

"I think I know where Zacul's main camp is."

"So you have said. But it is a thing I often hear. Besides, why do I need to know where Zacul hides when he and his army know so well where my camp is?"

"Your plan is to wait until he attacks you?"

Rivera made a sweeping gesture. "Look around and you will see my plan. Look around and you will see the mountains that protect us. On each mountain we have built an observation tower. In each tower is a man with a radio who communicates with my headquarters. If Zacul tries to attack us here, we will destroy his army as it comes up the mountain. And he surely will try to attack. He is an impatient man."

Ford said, "You're the one who spoke of his intelligence. You think he'd try such a thing if he felt he would fail? When he comes, he'll be prepared. Maybe his friends, the Soviets, will provide him with planes and helicopters. The mountains aren't going to help you much if Zacul has enough helicopters."

Rivera sat silently for a time contemplating his beer. He had plainly already considered the possibility, and it troubled him. Ford said, "Zacul knows you're a patient man. He knows you'll wait. But every day you wait, you give Zacul more time to prepare for a successful assault on your camp. "

Rivera looked at him. "It is possible."

"It's probable."

"Yes, probable. So what do you propose as an alternative?"

Ford took out the map of Masagua, the one with Zacul's probable camp location marked, and spent fifteen minutes outlining two specific strategies. When he was done, Rivera remained hunched over the map. Tomlinson stirred uncomfortably when Rivera said, "You are not talking about a battle, here." He looked at Ford, and spoke in Spanish. "This is an assassination."

Ford could not sleep that night; could not sleep, probably, because he was anxious to be gone. He was anxious to find out if Rafe's son was still alive, anxious to be done with this business in Masagua so he could get back to Sanibel, his stilt house, his work, and the life that he had once hoped would be simple and without encumbrances. That simple life, the one recommended by Thoreau, was an unrealistic goal, though—not that he had ever wanted it; not really. He had wanted a simpler life, not a simple life, but now even that was proving impossible. In a modern world, only a person who was absolutely selfish could live an absolutely simple life, and only a hermit could live free of the personal and moral obligations inherent in taking one's own existence and the existence of others seriously.

Tomlinson would have something to say about that; yeah, Tomlinson could spend an hour talking about the obligations of existence.

Ford stood in the darkness beneath a huge guanacaste tree. He wore khaki fishing shorts and the blue chambray shirt. It was cool after the evening rain. The moon was up, and there was the smell of burning wood: the cooking fires of the soldiers. He had a small flashlight, and he walked from the line of tents toward the dense foliage bordering the cloud forest. There was a copse of wild plantain trees, with their large bananalike leaves and bizarre, colorful inflorescences, growing above a pool that was the confluence of several mountain rivulets. Touched by the flashlight's beam, each big leaf became a separate and living entity, each leaf the possible host or habitat of a variety of insects and animals, and Ford studied the leaves, trying to relax. The best way to see the jungle, he knew, was from above; the best way to learn about it, though, was from below, one leaf at a time, because each plant was a microcosm of the great green whole.

By crouching he could see up and inside one of the plantain leaves, and there was a colony of small bats roosting: disk-winged bats, their leathery wings pulsing with the regularity of lungs. The sudden light stunned them for a long instant and then they were gone in a panic, their eerie shapes silhouetting against the moon. The leaf that had held the bats leaned out over the water, and Ford placed his foot at the edge of the pool so he could get a closer look. There were beetles feeding on striations of the leaf, some kind of heliconia-feeder, but Ford didn't know which kind. Nearby, frogs began to trill again, and Ford used the flashlight to find them: red-eyed and brown tree frogs. It was the mating season, and several of the females had smaller males clinging to their backsides. That made Ford search for something else, and it didn't take him long to find the glutinous deposits of frog's eggs stuck to the undersides of the leaves. Some of the eggs had already matured into tadpoles, and the viscid masses hung in the light like icicles, dripping life into the water below . . . where two—no, four—cat-eyed snakes waited, feeding on the globs of tadpoles in a frenzy.

Ford watched the snakes feeding, taking an odd pleasure in knowing that this same drama was going on all around him; the same cycle of copulation, birth, and death; the same earnest theater being played out by jaguars, dung flies, tapirs, leaf-cutter ants, crocodiles, boas, and men throughout the millions of acres of jungle darkness.

A twig snapped behind him and Ford turned to see Juan Rivera standing in the shadows. He was bare chested and smelled of soap, as if he had just finished showering. Behind him, the face of a teenage Mayan girl peered out through the flap of Rivera's tent. She called the general's name softly, but her voice had the flavor of a command.

Rivera held up one finger as if asking her for a little more time, then looked at Ford. "Women," he said; one of those flat declarations that, even in formal Spanish, communicated a matter beyond control.

Ford switched off the light; switching from one world to another. "A new wife, General?" He stepped away from the water and walked until he was beside Rivera.

"Ah, Marion, you should not make sport of me. I have only one true wife, the mother of my children, the woman I love. But out here in the jungle one must find comfort where one can. This girl who waits for me in the tent—" He nudged Ford, whispering like a confession. "—she makes demands of me. Unrealistic demands. Then has a way of smiling when I cannot fulfill her every whim that makes me furious. I have threatened to send her back to her parents in Masagua City. Many times I have threatened this, and I am not a man who makes threats lightly." He lowered his voice even more. "But in some strange way her smile makes me even more determined to please her. Is that not odd? She makes demands of me and sometimes even presumes to tell me how to run my army. There is a demon in that little girl, I tell you. A demon, and she is bossy, too. So many times I have had to remind her who is the general and who is the simple village girl. Even then she just smiles. Yet I let her stay."

Ford said "Women" in the way it was always said—not sure he meant it; not so sure he didn't.

"What man of the world does not know it?" Rivera looked at Ford, shaking his head as if the burden of this unknowable thing was understood now that they had shared it. "But you, you are still not married, Marion?"

"No, not yet. Perhaps one day. I would like to have a child."

"Do you know why I think you have never married? I think it is because your heart belongs to one you cannot have." A statement that would have sounded sappy in English, but which came off as fatherly in Spanish.

"My heart belongs to one I cannot have?" As if the whole idea were too dramatic to be taken seriously.

"It would not be so surprising if you had listened closely to the gossip when you lived here. There was much talk about Pilar Balserio, my friend. No, do not give me that evil look. It was not that kind of talk. It was the talk people make when they admire a person. It was well known that she ran the government for a time. People loved her for the good things she did; for her kindness and her wisdom. Even though her husband forced her into seclusion, the talk continued. It was said she went to live in the convent across from the Presidential Palace. It was said she went there not because of her husband, but because she had fallen in love with a foreigner, a gringo, a man with hair the color of Quetzalcoatl's."

Ford said, "You never seemed like the superstitious type to me, Juan. Nor a man who gives credence to Mayan legends."

"I am not superstitious. Nor have I ever believed someone from outside our country will come to save us—but I am a Maya. I am a student of our culture, as is Pilar Balserio. The old stories are important even if they are not true. I remember that she spent many months doing research at a Mayan site by a lake in the mountains." Rivera was smiling. "You only recently mentioned the name of that lake; the lake near which you feel Zacul has his camp. Yes, Eye of God, that is the lake's name. She lived on the lake at about the same time you and I first met. Remember? It was before your government sent you to work in Masagua City, and you lived on the shore of the lake in that thatched cabana, the one with the stone cooking place and the dock where we drank beer. You said you were there to study the sharks."

"I was studying the sharks."

"You also fell in love with Pilar Balserio. No, do not deny it. I felt very dense when I heard the rumors later. When you two were together those few times, I saw no sign of love in your faces. Usually a man can tell. Even when the woman is married."

"That was a long time ago, Juan."

"Yes. But with a woman such as that, the heart scars but it does not heal. It makes me sad, thinking of your predicament. For you, of course, there has been no other woman."

Ford was chuckling. "You are a romantic, Juan. All of you Latins are romantics. Even you Maya Latins. There have been plenty of other women. "

"Women for the body, yes, but maybe not for the heart. Not a woman who makes you furious with her smile like my little demon Teresa who waits for me in the tent. Not a woman, Marion, you will let stay."

"You're getting nosy in your old age."

"Is it that I am nosy or because I am right that you evade the question?"

"I have no reason to evade anything. If you really have to know, there was one. A woman in Florida. An artist. She is as pretty as Pilar and almost as intelligent. A woman to share children with."

"Your Spanish is too good for you to make an error in tense. You said there was a woman."

"Perhaps there still is. I'm not sure. Not yet."

"If you are unsure, then you must try and speak with Pilar while you are here. You must not let the opportunity pass. We are men together, and I tell you to do this thing. Such opportunities are rare. It is possible that you may never get a chance to speak with her again."

"I've checked with the people I once worked with, and no one knows where she is."

"You did not check with me."

Ford wasn't sure he wanted to pursue it, but he felt the old longing and he heard himself say, "I would be interested in anything you might know. There are reasons I need to speak with Pilar; reasons that have nothing to do with love."

Rivera's head was bobbing, nodding, saying I-told-you-so with his expression. "I thought you would be interested. First let me explain that I cannot tell you how it is I know the things I know. Let's just say I've heard it from the people of the mountains. They are my people and have no reason to lie to Juan. It was from these people I heard that, in the weeks after you left, Pilar went once again to that lake in the mountains to continue her investigations. You knew that there was supposedly once a great Mayan temple built on a hill above that lake?"

"Yes," said Ford, "I knew."

"And there was a great ceremonial calendar that, in some way, was lost. A very valuable artifact. It was covered with emeralds."

"I have also heard of the calendar. "

"I have been told that Pilar went back to look for this calendar—not because of the value of the emeralds, but because it played some important role in the ceremonies of our people, a thing called the Ritual of the Lake. She made certain discoveries on that lake, but if she found the calendar I cannot say. She had a camp there with workers, but the camp was attacked by robbers and Pilar was badly beaten by these men."

Ford took a deep breath, held it, then released the air slowly. "Robbers," he said, but he was thinking of Zacul.

"They stole things. They killed some of Pilar s people and they beat her. I've heard they beat her quite badly. Nuns found her and took her to a convent to heal, and there she remains. Or so I have heard."

"Then she may be dead for all you know."

"Do not get angry at me, old friend. I am only the messenger and it is not an easy thing to tell. Rivera shrugged. "Is she dead? I think not. I have heard rumors of nuns, nuns from that convent, traveling the country and talking to the people. They have been telling people what happened to Pilar. They have been telling the people that they must do a certain thing. They have been telling the people they must come to that lake in the mountains on a certain night in June, the night of the summer solstice. The nuns even sent an emissary to the village below, Isla de Verde, to tell these few people. Perhaps that is how I eame to know."

"Did they tell you why the nuns want them to go to the lake?"

"There can be only one reason. Pilar wants the people to unite behind her. She wants control of Masagua. If she was not so widely known for her goodness, for her kindness, some might even suspect her of placing the bomb that killed her husband. " Rivera's tone of voice did not suggest if he suspected her or not.

Ford said, "Then she has become your rival, just as Zacul is your rival. "

"It is difficult to think of such a woman as a rival. Now my only rival is Zacul—and, of course, the generals who are presently in control. The other factions are weak. Ultimately they will back him or they will back me."

"Then you will help me?"

Rivera made a gesture with his hands, a gesture of finality. "No. I'll riot risk my men on a premature attack. "

"We would need only two commando squads attacking from different directions. All we need is an avenue of escape. In return, Zacul would be eliminated."

"Yes, I know—sever the head and the snake dies. But who would do it?"

Ford said, "I think you know."

Rivera studied him for a moment, then said, "To be frank, I believe Zacul will have you and your hippie friend killed the moment you show any curiosity at all about this child you seek. It is a source of admiration that you would risk your own life for a boy you do not know. "

Ford said, "Then you overestimate my resolve. It would be nice to rescue the child, but I won't pretend that I'd trade my life for his. As for Tomlinson, I've decided it's too dangerous for him to go. It would be useful to have him, but I cannot accept the responsibility. Not after what you've told me. Could he remain here with you for a few days?"

"Of course. He is a scholar. And I would like to pitch to him again."

"Then I will leave in the morning, before Tomlinson is awake—"

"Juan? Juan?" A girl's petulant voice interrupted, and both men looked up to see the small figure in a long white shirt, hands on hips, dark hair hanging over heavy breasts, silhouetted by the light from within Rivera's tent. "I am getting very sleepy, Juan. Waiting for you is causing this pain in my head."

"Then do not wait! Go to sleep!" Rivera called back, sounding angry for her interruption, but he was already moving away from Ford, toward the tent. To Ford he said, "Women," and sounded slightly embarrassed as he added, "These pains in her head are a worry to me. I must go now. But I will have two men waiting to escort you back to the village."

"Thank you, General."

"Such pains in the head are not normal for a young girl. And only the touch of my hands will make the pain go away. It is a mystery, no?" Still embarrassed, still explaining himself, General Juan Rivera of the Masaguan People's Army disappeared into his tent.

FOURTEEN

A quetzal bird flew over, a red-chested male trailing its green tail feathers like a yard-long banner. The quetzal dropped down out of the jungle shadows, flew hard across the clearing, then banked abruptly toward the rising sun and burst into iridescent flame, sunlight still clinging to the bird's wings as it faded from sight.

Two of Rivera's soldiers were waiting, and Ford swung onto the saddle and nudged his horse. They rode from the camp straight up the mountainside to a ridge to begin the series of switchbacks that would take them around the peak to Isla de Verde. Ford stopped for a moment on the ridge, looking down into the camp. Rivera's men were stirring in the fresh morning light, tending their cooking fires. Dogs trotted here and there scattering chickens while a couple of other early risers saddled horses.

Ford wondered how Rivera had fared with his teenage mistress. He doubted if the pain in her head had lasted long; doubted if it would ever last any longer than it took to get Rivera to do exactly what she wanted. That made him smile, thinking of Juan being bullied by the tiny girl.

The two soldiers waited; when Ford nodded, they kicked their horses into a lazy walk. They rode for twenty minutes before one of the soldiers stopped suddenly, holding up his hand like a cavalry officer. In Spanish, the man said, "Do you hear something? Did you hear that?"

Ford sat listening; sat listening to the rustling silence of deep jungle; sat listening to saddles creak and their horses blowing air; sat listening . . . and then he heard it, too: voices behind them. The two soldiers quickly slid off their horses and led them into the jungle, weapons raised. Ford sat alone on the trail, feeling ridiculous, then got off his horse, too.

The voices had come from the switchback beneath them, so it was nearly ten minutes before the men came into view: two more riders on horseback. Ford guessed the soldiers were going to wait until the men were past, so he crouched down, but then he saw the men clearly, and he stepped out onto the path because one of them was Tomlinson.

"Goddamn, Doc, I didn't think we were ever going to catch you." Pulling his horse up like Randolph Scott, but looking like Joe Cocker, Tomlinson was grinning as if they hadn't seen each other in a month; a reunion smile. "I kept telling these cowboys we had to hurry—you know, like vamos. But these horses got minds of their own, man."

Ford said, "Now that you've caught us, you're going to have to turn right around and go back. Didn't Rivera give you my message?"

"Yeah, man; sure, he gave me the message. You said it was too dangerous. This Zacul dude was better organized than you thought and I had to stick around and play baseball with the general. Some message. You coulda told me personally, you know."

"I can't take responsibility for your safety, Tomlinson. I knew there would be some danger involved, but I didn't know how much until I talked to Juan. I'd appreciate it if you stayed here for a few days—or I can drop you off at the next town. You might be able to rent an old truck or something, but I'm not sure."

Tomlinson was shaking his head, not accepting any of it. "Bullshit, man. I'm going with you. This is the chance of a lifetime, and you think I'm going to miss it? My shot at being a bodhisattva. Besides, there's that kid to think about."

"You have nothing to do with the boy."

"Which just shows you don't know what bodhisattva means."

"Right. And I don't want to know. "

"The kid and I are both caught up in a big dharma, man. You, too. None of this is accidental, Doc—"

"I don't want to hear any more of this stuff, damn it."

"Most people fear death. Me, I'm tuned into the only one valid fear: missing life—"

"Tomlinson—"

"I'm just telling you how I feel. I'm going with you, Doc."

"I'm telling you I can't be responsible for your safety."

"Hey, whose asking you to be responsible? You want to know why you can't be responsible for me? I'll tell you why."

Ford listened for a moment to what was to become another lesson in philosophy, then cut him off, saying "Okay, okay." He was getting back onto his horse.

Tomlinson said, "I'm way past twenty-one and I can make my own decisions."

"I said okay!"

"I knew you'd come around to my way of thinking, man."

"Just no more of that ping-pong karma Buddhist talk. It gives me a—pain in the head. And don't say I didn't warn you if things get rough."

Tomlinson kicked his horse up alongside Ford's. "You know what I think about danger? I think if you're walking on thin ice anyway, why not dance?"

Ford said, "Tell that to Zacul when we find him."

They drove 150 miles over bad roads, down through the central plateau of Masagua with its grazing cattle, its solitary gauchos, then west toward volcanic peaks, which sat on the horizon like stalagmites piercing smoke-colored thunderheads near the edge of the sea. Beyond the volcanoes, Ford knew, was the lake, God's Eye.

They stopped once for a breakfast, then again in Utatlan, the only town of size between Masagua City and the Pacific. Utatlan had been founded by the Spaniards in the 1500s, and it still looked like something out of a postcard from Castellon with its whitewashed haciendas and donkeys pulling carts down red brick streets.

Ford said, "Don't have far to go now, bubba."

The streets were crowded and he was driving slowly, arm out the window, taking pleasure in the look of the town and its people. Women in traditional Mayan dress, bright skirts and embroidered blouses, balanced water jugs on their heads while men in mauve-striped pantaloons and white straw hats sat by fountains selling the wares they had brought down from the mountains. "We can get some supper here, and I need to make a phone call. I guess we ought to think about spending the night, too. It'll be dark in a couple of hours."

Tomlinson was looking at the small notebook he carried. He was reading, leafing through the pages, then comparing his notes with the map he had spread over his knees. He had been going over his notes for the last half hour.

Ford said, "It may take me a while to get my call through. I have to call the States. You want to go ahead and find a place to eat?"

Tomlinson made no reply. He was reading, concentrating.

"Did you hear me? You want me to try and make my call, or do you want to order some food first?"

Tomlinson looked up suddenly, like he was surprised Ford was there. "Hey, you know where we are?"

"Sure I know where we are. We're in Utatlan. It's an interesting little town, but watch your step. The people are clannish, and you're a gringo in a country about to have a revolution—don't forget it."

"No, not that. Do you know where we are? This is it, man. This is the place!"

"What place? What are you talking about?"

"The fifteen hundreds, man. When Alvarado conquered the Kache and the Tlaxclen. He came from the north with his horsemen down through the central plain to a Mayan trading center built on the branching of two rivers. That river we came across was the Azul. And that river up there—" Tomlinson was pointing at a rocky riverbed ahead where green water flowed past women washing clothes on the bank. "—is called the Sol." Ford translated without thinking: the River of Blue; River of the Sun.

Tomlinson said, "This is the place where the Kache surrendered to Alvarado without a fight. This village, Utatlan. This is where the whole damn sad story began. Hey, pull over there by the river. I want to look at something."

Ford waited in the vehicle while Tomlinson got out, and then Ford got out, too. While Tomlinson looked at his map and looked at the mountains beyond, Ford began to lob rocks into the river: small round rocks good for throwing, but his arm was sore after the game yesterday. "See the valley way, way over there just below the clouds?" Tomlinson was pointing again.

"That must be the mountain pass where Alvarado made his forced march with the Kache. It was probably all jungle back then. Had to be a hell of a tough trip. Made them kill other Maya just so they could eat. That's the route they took when they went hunting for the Tlaxclen. The lake where you expect to find this Zacul character is just beyond those mountains, isn't it?"

"Right. About another twenty miles on the map. A heck of a lot farther by mountain road. "

"And that's the lake where the Tlaxclen priests lived?"

"So the story goes."

Tomlinson was nodding, smiling, pleased with himself. "See how it's all fitting, man? It's like some magnet is drawing us. Right down the path. Can't you feel it? Doc, I can close my eyes and hear the conquistadors' horses coming. I can hear their damn armor rattling. The Kache probably waded this river to get a closer look at this wild-looking Spaniard with long blond hair dressed in metal. Alvarado had to seem like someone from outer space to them, riding an animal they'd never even seen before. It's no wonder they thought he was a god. And they maybe stood right where we're standing now watching him and his little army coming with absolutely no idea in hell that the culture of a hundred generations would be destroyed within just a few weeks." Tomlinson's eyes opened. "There's something about these hills, man; something about this country. The jungle holds onto things. It absorbs events. Five hundred years is just a blink of the eye in country like this, and things echo for a long, long time. Go ahead. Try it. Close your eyes and listen."

Ford said, "I'll let you do the cosmic listening. I've got to make a phone call. "

"Suit yourself, man, but it's all still right here. A place like this, lost spirits linger."

They drove toward the heart of the town, then parked and walked because the streets were narrow and filled with people and slow-moving carts. Thursday was market day in Utatlan, a big event for all of the people who lived in the surrounding mountains; a day of bartering and drinking. The main street dead-ended in a plaza bordered by shops and old stone buildings. In the center of the plaza was a small park with a fountain, a few trees, and several stela—standing stone slabs covered with Mayan hieroglyphics. Traders had set up their booths in the plaza, and everything was for sale: live chickens, goats, wild mountain fruit, hardware, bolts of handwoven cloth, baskets of herbs, coffee beans; all these smells blending with the smoke of small cooking fires and the sharp odor of incense.

Forming the back of the plaza was a stone cathedral, four hundred years old, cracked by earthquakes, its stone steps scooped by the comings and goings of a million souls. Men in pantaloons and colorful shirts marched up and down the steps swinging censer cans of burning copal leaves while their women knelt on the floor inside the church lighting rows of candles and burning small offerings to gods known only to themselves. The mumbled chants in guttural Mayan added a percussion backdrop to the noise and wild laughter of the marketplace, and the smoke pall drifting over the plaza swirled in the cool mountain sunlight.

"The Catholic priests let them do that? Burn offerings on the floor of the cathedral?" Tomlinson's head was turning this way and that, trying to take in everything at once as they moved through the crowd, both of them a head taller than the earthen-faced Mayas who glanced up at them, expressionless. "Any way you slice it, that's paganism, man. According to the church, anyway."

"The priests leave town on market day," Ford said.

Tomlinson laughed, like it was a joke.

"No, I mean it. In these mountain villages, the priests physically leave town on market day. It's their way of pretending not to know about the religion the Indians practice. If the priests tried to put a stop to it, the Indians wouldn't show up at mass on Sunday. So the priests compromise by ignoring it. The one thing they won't let the Indians do is sacrifice live animals inside the church. Most of these little towns have some secluded spot for sacrifices. A place with an altar, a cross, and usually some kind of stone Mayan deity figure set up. When the Indians want to make a blood offering, they go there. "

"Catholicity. I like that. My respect for the church just went up a notch, man."

"I'm sure the folks in Rome will be relieved to hear."

"Hey, I've got a right to judge. I was raised in the church, man; furthermore, I liked it. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a monk; live in an abbey and sing Latin songs."

"That I believe."

"But then I found out about the Beatles."

"I believe that, too."

"Catholicism is great. They got a franchise everywhere."

"Uh-huh." Ford had stopped. "That little restaurant with the veranda look okay to you?"

"Sure, anyplace is okay with me. As long as they got beans and rice."

"Then why don't you go on in and order for us and I'll try and find the public phone."

"I'd bet long odds there isn't one. This little town is still in the bronze age, man."

"You'd lose. When Pilar was involved in the government, she saw to it that every village with a population of more than five thousand had at least one public phone, a public health facility, and a school."

Ford left Tomlinson at the restaurant and headed off through the crowd alone. He had to stop three people before he found one who spoke Spanish and could tell him where to find the phone. It wasn't a phone booth with neon lighting. The public phone was inside a house where a short fat Mayan woman sat in attendance. She dutifully noted Ford's call, accepted coins in payment, contacted the overseas operator and told her that the call was to Washington, D.C., person-to-person to Donald Piao Cheng, collect. The operator said it might take a while to get the call through and the Mayan woman assured Ford she would send a runner for him when the call was completed.

Ford ate rice, red beans, and boiled chicken at the little restaurant and drank Masaguan beer served in a liter bottle with a ceramic top. Tomlinson was saying he was anxious to get back to the plaza and take a look at those Mayan stelae, and Ford said he could take his time because they would spend the night in Utatlan. He didn't want to chance stumbling onto Zacul's army after dark and getting shot before they could find a messenger to forward their offer of an exchange. Tomlinson said that was good; he needed a break from all that traveling. Ford said it wasn't going to be much of a break because they were going to spend their free time going over how Tomlinson was going to react to the questions Zacul would surely ask him.

"Damn, man, we went over and over that stuff for the whole six hours it took us to get here."

"If we had six days, Tomlinson, it still wouldn't be enough time. If Zacul isn't absolutely convinced you're an expert on pre-Columbian artifacts he's going to kill us. It's as simple as that. No judge, no jury, no trial. He'll just take us out and shoot us."

Tomlinson, finishing his beer, said, "I don't know what you're so worried about, Doc. I bullshitted my way through Harvard on all kind of subjects I didn't know."

Ford said, "It's just that Harvard has a different grading system. With Zacul, it's strictly pass or fail."

The Mayan woman sent a boy to get him, and Ford followed the boy through the market to the little house and picked up the phone. Donald Cheng was waiting. "Doc? Jesus Christ, Doc, you sound like you're about a million miles away. What's that echo? You in a plane or something?"

"No, at the base of a mountain. In Masagua—which is strictly between you and me. Did you get to the auction? Tell me you went to the auction, Don. "

"I went to New York. I went to the auction. That painting you described to me never came up for sale—not that I'm surprised."

"You didn't leave early—-"

"Just to make a phone call. I had to go out and call an agent friend of mine with New York Customs. And I bet a hundred bucks you know exactly why."

Ford said, "Oh?" and then waited.

"You said the guy holding the auction, this Benjamin what's-his-name character, Benjamin Rouchard, might be a little shady. Well, he's at least a little shady. Along with paintings, this guy was selling stuff he shouldn't have been selling. Jade carvings of jaguars, parrots, these weird little stone statuettes with nasty-looking faces and great big schlongs. He had about a dozen pieces on the block and a couple hundred more in the back room. I guess he was moving it out slow; didn't want to flood the market. You know what some of that crap sold for?"

"A lot," said Ford.

"Yeah, it's very popular with interior decorators these days. Pre-Columbian art is illegal, expensive, and bizarre, which makes it chic. One of the statuettes went for just under ten grand. And there was no documentation on any of it. No bills of sale, no statements of provenance, no shipping manifest, nothing. Smuggled goods. We're going to get one of our experts to verify the stuff as authentic, but I think it's real. That's why the high rollers come to his auctions. They know Rouchard sells only the real stuff. All Aztec."

"Mayan," said Ford.

"Hah! Caught you, you bastard. I knew you knew. That's why you pumped me about all those laws. Why didn't you just come out and tell me?"

"You're about to find out, old buddy."

"If it has something to do with that woman artist, you wasted your time being tricky. She was just an innocent bystander as far as we're concerned. We nailed Rouchard and we're checking his records to see if we can pull in any of his partners. But we don't want the woman—unless you count the way some of the guys were drooling when they looked at her. Which I guess explains why you suddenly became an art lover."

"Rouchard is in jail?"

"Oh, hell no. He's out on bail, first offense and all."

"Which means he could be out of the country by now. "

"He could be. It's not like he was smuggling in coke or heroin or something. But it's the sort of arrest we like to make to keep our neighbors to the south happy. Lets them know we care about preserving their rich and colorful history and all that shit. As if I care personally, but it's illegal and this guy was doing it in a big way, so I'm glad you steered me in even if you did it in your own weird, convoluted way."

Ford looked at the Mayan woman sitting there looking out the window, listening to him but not seeming to understand. He pressed the phone closer and said, "I want to know what else you found there, Don. It's important. There's one particular thing I'm looking for—"

"So now we're getting down to it: the real reason you didn't want a well-organized bust walking into that auction. You want something. Now it's becoming clear—"

"I do want something. It's a manuscript. Very old, written on parchment with no end boards and not very long—maybe forty, fifty pages in script; archaic Spanish with rough illustrations, hand drawn. I don't know for sure that Rouchard had it, but if he did, he may not even have known it was valuable. He'd probably want some expert to appraise it before he tried to figure out how to peddle it. It may have been in that back room with the other stuff. Or his home. Did you find anything like that?"

There was a long silence before Cheng finally said, "Well, yeah. I think maybe we did. I'm pretty sure we did. One of the agents showed me something like that. There was so much stuff I didn't look at any of it too closely, but I remember seeing—" "I want it, Don. I need that book. I need it in a big way." "Doc, I can't do that. You know I can't. That stuff all has to be catalogued and tagged as evidence. When we're done with it, it'll be returned to the rightful country if provenance can be established. That's the way the antiquities act reads."

"You made the bust late last night, Don. You mean to tell me your people have already catalogued all that stuff—"

"You know damn well we haven't. We didn't even get the search warrants signed until late this morning. That's why you sent me to an art auction and not a bust, isn't it? You were buying yourself time just in case this book you wanted happened to be there—"

"That's exactly what I was doing. I didn't want to have to ask you to take an article already catalogued and tagged as state's evidence. That would be against the letter of the law, Donald, and I knew what your answer would have to be. But now that manuscript—if it's the piece I need—is just sitting in a room—"

"Yeah, a room that we've legally sealed."

"Right. But the article hasn't been catalogued so it's not yet considered evidence."

"Ah, shit, Doc, you're really reaching. You must really want that manuscript."

"I do. I'll tell you why later, but I need it just as soon as you can get it to me. You still owe me a big favor, Don. Do you remember why?"

"You know goddamn well I remember. I will always remember. "

"I'm calling in that favor now. But you have my word that I won't sell the manuscript for profit and that it'll be returned to the proper people in the proper country."

"Meaning Masagua."

"Yeah, Masagua."

There was another long silence. Donald Piao Cheng was a man who did everything by the book, followed every letter of the law, and this wasn't coming easily. "Well," he said slowly, "we've got plenty of other stuff on the guy. Like I said, there are a couple hundred pieces boxed in that room. And the really important evidence is the stuff he'd already auctioned off."

"I appreciate it, Don. I really do."

"But Christ, you don't want me to try and get it to you while you're out of the country?"

"I wish you could. But you can't. Not safely, anyway."

Ford asked Cheng to describe the manuscript in more detail and then, convinced that it was the Kin Qux Cho, gave him the address in Florida to which he should have it couriered.

FIFTEEN

Men in the gutters were being peed upon.

At first dark, the Mayan men put down their copal censers and picked up bottles of aguardiente. They had been drinking all afternoon but, with the start of the festival which always concluded market day, they began to drink in earnest. The Maya were not loud and jolly drinkers, nor did they drink in violent packs. These small men in striped pantaloons were intensely alone as they drank, gulping straight from the bottle, throwing their heads way back. They drank as if it were a punishment, as if seeking oblivion. When they finally fell, their friends rolled them into the gutters for, traditionally, it was the duty of the women to rouse their sons or husbands and get them home. But the women would not bother to try until late that night or the next morning, and so now the village dogs sniffed the fallen and, with great ceremony, lifted their legs to pee.

Ford sat on a bench in the plaza watching the dogs, watching the activity while Tomlinson kept up a running commentary on the glyphs he was tracing from a stone stela. Torches illuminated the plaza but Tomlinson had to use a flashlight to decipher the nuances of etchings which had survived nine hundred or more years of weather. This was Tomlinson at his best, taking written materials and cross-referencing and crosschecking them against a memory and intellect that, considering his past, should have long since been rendered just one more warped record from the generation of Flower Children.

Tomlinson was saying "Figuring out the date of this thing is a real bitch, man. You have no idea; no idea at all. See this?" The stone stela was about two feet taller than Tomlinson, and the main figure—a profile of some long-gone Mayan chieftain or god—was bordered by hundreds of blocks of intricately carved figures. "These here are the calendar glyphs. You read them in blocks of four, the first glyph in the top line, the first glyph in the next line, then the second glyph in the top line, and the second glyph in the next line. So on and so on, like that. See this thing that has four petals like a flower? This was their figure for zero. Problem is, the Maya saw time as an unending march into the future. Zero can mean the beginning of something, but it can also mean the completion. But see how the flower petal is affixed to this thing here, that kind of looks like the head of a bat? In glyphs, a bat face means very tired; the end of something. Then you have these three bars and four dots. That's the number nineteen, almost like Roman numerals. So this block of glyphs is telling a kind of story: that something came to an end or began during the nineteenth katun. A tun is a three hundred sixty—day year; a katun is twenty of those years; so the nineteenth katun would be . . ." He was actually doing the math in his head. ". . . three hundred and eighty years before or after something. You following me so far?"

Ford said, "Nope." He was watching people in the market form a loose semicircle around the steps of the Catholic church, readying themselves to participate—as they did each week—in a dance which had become ritual in the isolated Mayan villages of Central America, the Dance of the Conquest. This was no spontaneous dance inspired by the bottles of aguardiente. It was an articulate drama, refined over hundreds of years, that depicted the coming of the conquistadors. Each village supported its own small industry dedicated to carving masks and sewing costumes, with each new generation serving its apprenticeship.

Why the villages of Masagua continued to perform the dance, Ford did not know.

There were about a dozen dancers, and he watched as they filed down the street, shaking their rattles, already lost in the identities of the masks they wore. The conquistadors had angelic faces, painted blond hair, blond mustaches, and each bore a close-lipped smile that resembled a mannequin's leer. Some of the conquistadors were strapped into cloth horses. But the masks depicting the Maya, as through some strange act of self-flagellation, were grotesque caricatures of humanity, more demon than man.

The Maya on the street showed no emotion as they parted to let the actors pass.

Ford said over his shoulder, "You need to watch this, Tomlinson."

Tomlinson was still concentrating on the glyphs. "You don't see why learning to read these dates is so important, do you, Doc?"

"No, but I don't have to see it. You're the one who's going to have to convince Zacul."

"What I'm talking about goes beyond Zacul, man. I'm talking about my work; I'm talking the Kin Qux Cho. Do you realize no one has completely figured out the Mayan calendar? Scholars know even less about the Mayan writing system— pretty amazing when you consider that the people who devised the glyphs and the language are still around. You know why I think it's so important to crack the code?"

Ford said, "No. But you're going to tell me anyway—"

"It's because the figures carved into these stones go to the very damn heart of why these people seem . . . like such lost souls. Don't they seem that way to you? Kind of remote? Kind of lost?"

Still watching the dancers, Ford nodded.

"See, even if a group of people can provide itself with all the basic physical needs—food, fuel, and water—they still have to devise a method of dealing with the existential problems of existence before they can be properly called a civilization."

"No lectures on existential problems, Tomlinson. I don't like it when you do that."

"That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about why figuring out their writing system is so important. The Maya were an agrarian people. The existential events they had to deal with were floods, earthquakes, drought, and disease. Their way of making these random tragedies into an orderly pattern was to carefully record not only the success or failure of the current growing season, but also to make detailed predictions about future growing seasons. Gave everything symmetry, see? It all has to do with numbers, man; with these glyphs. They are the key to the foundation the whole damn civilization was built on. The Maya were fanatics about numbers. It was their religion. Take away the religion, you've got a lot of lost souls. " Tomlinson was beginning to sound a little angry, but he was still squinting at the glyphs, trying to read them. "And you say once you've got the book, you're not going to let me see it—"

"I said we may not have time."

"It's just that I think you could be a little more willing." He abruptly folded his papers, slapped his notebook shut, and plopped down on the bench beside Ford. "No offense, Doc, but I personally think you've been an asshole when it comes to that book. If you don't care about academics, you ought to at least think about these people."

Ford was smiling. "Getting a little frustrated trying to figure out those glyphs, Tomlinson?"

"Damn right. Cross-eyed and crazy. Almost over-fucking-whelming. I mean, people have worked on this stuff for years and still don't understand it."

"Have a beer. We'll have a long talk about the book—but later."

"That's another thing. You're always giving me beer. You never drink more than three a day, but you act like I've got no willpower at all." Tomlinson had already taken one of the liter bottles from the paper sack beside the bench, and now he took a long drink. "Hey, why are all those people wearing costumes?" As if he'd just returned to earth and opened ^is eyes.

The dance had already begun. The actors wearing the grotesque masks were alone before the onlookers, doing a slow, strange shuffle, weaving like reeds in the wind. Through the nature of the choreography, the dancers gradually seemed less and less to depict the ancestral Maya than forms of essential, malevolent spirits. They jumped and shouted, shaking their rattles. Small children who watched put their hands over their faces and slid behind their mothers, frightened.

As Ford shared with Tomlinson what little he knew about the dance, the conquistadors broke through the crowd—and that was the way to describe it, for they brushed the onlookers aside in a sort of abbreviated trot, as if on horseback while the Maya in their grotesque masks threw their hands up, writhing, terrified. Then began a series of choreographed assaults by the conquistadors. The battle lasted for a long time and it seemed as if the conquistadors were exorcising demons rather than defeating a people, and once again Ford had the impression of self-flagellation, of the Maya punishing themselves for an event that had occurred on this very ground four hundred years before.

Then the conquistadors danced alone, thrusting their cherubic masks forward, which seemed to emphasize the leering smiles as they slowly, slowly adopted the shuffling, weaving step of the demons they had just vanquished, then quickened the cadence until they were twirling around in a frenzy like a people gone mad.

Abruptly the drums and rattles were quieted and the dancers filed off again.

The villagers did not applaud.

"I'll be damned," whispered Tomlinson. "That dance made the Spaniards look like the good guys . . . but in a weird sort of way."

"I know what you mean," Ford said. "But I can't put my finger on it either. Their ancestors are portrayed as demons but the conquistadors, in some subtle, backhanded way come off as being even more demonic."

"Maybe it's those masks. Those masks with their painted blond hair and those weird expressions give even me the creeps."

Thinking of the men lying drunk in the gutter and of the wandering stray dogs, Ford said, "Maybe it's the masks. But maybe it's something else, too."

Tomlinson said he wasn't sleepy; said he wanted to go out and have one more beer and maybe have another look at the glyphs.

Ford told him not to stay up late, they'd be leaving at four, an hour before sunrise. Like a camp counselor talking to a kid. He also told him to be careful.

Tomlinson said, "I specialize in being innocuous, man."

And Ford replied, "Don't kid yourself. Everyone in town knows we're here. Just stay out of trouble."

The best hotel in Utatlan was the only hotel, a two-story roadhouse built for the field hands of some long-gone coffee plantation. The outside walls were adobe, the rooms whitewashed. There was one shower stall and the toilet was downstairs, a cement slab with a hole augered through. Ford sat outside the hotel for a while watching huge Central American moths beat themselves against the lighted windows. He remembered a story he'd heard in the Amazonia region of Peru. On one night of each year, the story went, jungle moths would gather and fly toward the light of the full moon.

At 8 P.M. he showered then went upstairs. His bed was military issue and the springs sagged beneath his weight. The last time he checked his watch before falling asleep, it was 8:45 and Tomlinson still wasn't back.

He was involved with a dream when he heard the noise; a clattering, thunking noise, like a bunch of kids running up steps. The noise slid into his dream, then became a part of the dream. He was dreaming of sharks—the big bull sharks he kept penned off his lab on Sanibel. It was not unusual for him to dream of the species he happened to be studying, and to Ford it was a sign his subconscious was at work on conscious problems—the only significance he would ever ascribe to dreaming.

But the sounds didn't fit properly with the dream. The only way the bull sharks could be making that kind of thunking noise would be if they were banging into the pen, but the pen was built of plastic-coated wire, not wood, plus that sort of behavior was inconsistent with what Ford knew about sharks in captivity.

Then he was sitting up in the darkness, his pulse thudding, aware that someone was banging against the door. Not knocking—banging—someone throwing his shoulder against it. He swung out of bed, found his bag, and began to fish around in the darkness, looking for the pistol. But then the door crashed open and the silhouettes of three men stood in the wedge of light, two of them holding short-barreled shotguns.

The middle figure, the one not holding a weapon, said in English, "Don't do anything stupid. You come with us. You resist, we kill you here." A nervous voice, uncomfortable with the language.

Ford said, "What the hell's this all about? You can't come barging in here! I'll contact the American Embassy in Masagua City—"

"We are not dumb Indians, Señor. We know what you are and what you are not. You will not contact anyone unless you dress quickly. You come with us! Now!"

The light came on, a bare overhead bulb on the ceiling, and Ford stood before the three men. Two of them wore green military fatigues; young, stocky men with dust-colored skin and blank expressions, holding weapons. They addressed the third man, the one doing the talking, as Colonel Suarez. Suarez wore civilian clothing, dark slacks and a loose dark shirt. He was shorter than the others, but bigger through the chest and arms; older with hairy hands and huge forearms. The shotguns were pointed at Ford's legs, then lifted toward his chest as Suarez approached him. "Did you hear me, Señor? I told you to get dressed." Ford said nothing, just stood there in his underwear as Suarez, almost as if in slow motion, cocked his fist back and hit him hard in the face, knocking him to the floor. "When I tell you to do something, Señor, do it immediately. Is clear?"

Ford's sat up and touched his jaw, his cheek. There was no bleeding and he wondered why it hurt so badly. He had been hit before and it had never hurt like that, but then he realized it was probably because the punch had come as such a surprise. There was no adrenaline in him to dull the pain. He got slowly to his feet, trying to keep his distance from Suarez. He said through the pain, "It's suddenly very clear."

"Good," said Suarez. "You will now get dressed while my men search your bags—if you do not object, of course." The man smiled slightly, a little nervous, but showing a set of very white teeth as Ford pawed the nightstand looking for his glasses.

They paid little attention to the cloth sack containing the jade, but they took Ford's pistol, knife, their passports, Tomlinson's notebooks, and his sheaf of traveler's checks. They also took the money from Ford's pants, but they didn't check his belt where most of his cash was hidden. The men put everything but the pistol and the money back in the bags, then secured them.

Tomlinson. Glancing at his watch, Ford wondered what had happened to Tomlinson. It was 2:35 A.M. and Tomlinson should have been back long since. Maybe they had him, too. But why?

When he was dressed, Suarez pushed him roughly into the hall, hurrying him along. The two men carried both his backpack and Tomlinson's. Obviously, he wouldn't be coming back to this room. It was as if they were cleaning up the evidence, and that scared him.

Ford was aware of faces in cracked doorways peeking out. In Masagua, people had learned not to interfere with armed men in uniform, and they pulled their doors shut quickly. They were turning away from his abduction, refusing to see it, just as stragglers on the early morning streets of Utatlan refused to see.

They took him down an alleyway that stank of urine, unlocked a door, and shoved him into a room. It was a tiny room with a single kerosene lamp on a wooden table. Ford steadied himself as his eyes adjusted, and there, slumped in a corner, was Tomlinson. Tomlinson's face was caked with blood, both eyes shut. For a moment Ford thought he was dead and felt the same vacancy of emotion, the same sense of waste, he had experienced upon finding Rafe Hollins. But then Tomlinson opened one swollen eye, smiling through the blood, saying "I screwed up, man. I really screwed up."

Behind Ford, Suarez said in convoluted English, "Your friend was very happy to find someone in the Cacique Bar he could talk with. He is a talker, this friend of yours. He told me you had come to Masagua to find Julio Zacul. Such a coincidence, no? that I am closest friend to General Zacul."

One of the soldiers pulled the door shut and locked it as Suarez said, "Now we discover exactly why you want to find my friend."

SIXTEEN

Ford was forced to sit at the table and Tomlinson was lifted into the chair beside him as Suarez took the two passports and studied the photos. Still speaking in English, he said, "William Johnson, this is your name the book says, and your city is from New York. Is correct?"

When Suarez spoke English, he sounded like someone's funny uncle, and none too bright. But it was a device; a deception that Suarez was shrewd enough to use, and Ford knew he had to be careful. He had no idea what Tomlinson had told them, or why he had told them anything, so he stuck with their original story—but aggressively, wanting to lea<5 Suarez, not follow him. He shook his head. "No, the passports are fake. My name is Ford. His name is Tomlinson. I had the passports made in Costa Rica. You should have figured that out just by looking at them."

The frankness of that raised Suarez's eyebrows. "Perhaps

the passports are real. Perhaps the names you give me are lies."

"Look inside the passports. There will be a Masaguan stamp, but none from Costa Rican customs. That's where we came from, Costa Rica. If you don't believe me, take a look at the contract in the vehicle we rented in San Jose."

"You entered illegally Masagua?"

"That's right, we did."

"So quickly a confession! Perhaps you will admit as quickly that you are agents sent by the Agency of Central Intelligence to find General Zacul. You and the other fucks come to try and destroy the movement. Murderers!"

"Murderers?" As if he were shocked at the suggestion; amused, too, but Ford wasn't smiling. "Look, we don't work for anyone but ourselves. You can believe that or not, but you had no reason to beat my associate. I mean, take a look at him. Does he look like a CIA agent to you? If you're not going to use your heads about this, at least use your eyes. "

Suarez turned away from Ford as if musing, then swung unexpectedly and hit him with the back of his hand, almost knocking him out of the chair. "This partner you have wouldn't cooperate. This partner failed to understand our seriousness, just as you apparently do not understand."

There was blood on Ford's face now, a slow trickle coming from his nose, and he wiped it away knowing he had to show outrage, not fear, if they were to live long enough to meet with Zacul. "Your questions would be a hell of a lot easier to understand, Suarez, if you told us who you are. For all we know, you could be outlaws. Or the police. Or maybe government forces trying to destroy the general yourselves. Tell us why we should talk and then maybe we'll be more willing. "

Suarez leaned over him, and Ford smelled the sharp stink of tobacco on his breath. "You must talk or we will kill you. Is cause enough?"

"It's a cause, but not a good reason. If you really are a friend of Zacul's, that might be a good reason."

"I will ask the questions here. "

"Ask all you want. I'm not going to feel like doing much talking, though, unless you give me some answers first." Suarez took that musing attitude again, preparing to slap him, and Ford said quickly, "Look, we're not CIA agents. Can't you get that through your head? You can beat us all you want, but we're not going to admit to that because it's not true. In fact, it's just stupid. I personally don't give a damn who runs this country. The communists or the right-wingers, it's all the same to me. I'm here because I'm a businessman; strictly for profit. We have a business proposition to make General Zacul. That's why my friend was making inquiries. If you know Zacul, you can help us and I think we can help you."

Tomlinson leaned forward to speak, but caught Suarez's look of warning. Suarez wasn't going to let him say anything to help guide Ford's answers, and Tomlinson sat back, giving a sad shrug, as if to say again he was the cause of this.

Suarez said, "It is a thing of ease to claim you are businessmen, but a difficult thing so to prove."

"Would a CIA agent who doesn't speak Spanish go in to a public bar and ask the whereabouts of someone he wanted to spy on? Do you come across that many dumb CIA agents? We're here because we want to do business with Zacul. But first we have to find him. Why in the hell do you think I had the fake passports made? I didn't want our own customs people to be able to trace us from Costa Rica into Masagua. I didn't want them speculating about why we were here."

Suarez studied him for a moment, thinking, then said in Spanish, "Your associate said you came because you wanted to sell General Zacul weaponry. If it is true, I believe the general would be interested in talking to you. But you have made no mention of weapons."

It was an obvious trap, a soft offer to draw him into a lie, but Ford didn't fall for it. Replying in Spanish so as to suggest to Suarez he had no reason to communicate with Tomlinson, Ford said, "I am surprised my friend would invent such a story. It's not true. Maybe you frightened him into telling a lie. There is only one reason we are here: to arrange to buy pre-Columbian artifacts. The only reason. We had planned on paying American dollars, but if Zacul wants to work out some kind of trade for weapons, we can discuss it. Frankly, though, I don't know a thing about weaponry. I have an associate in Washington, D.C., who has some connections, and since he's one of my principal backers he might be able to help." Getting that information out in the open in case this was all because the Mayan woman had talked about his phone call; wanting to defuse the implications before Suarez had a chance to mention it.

It was a wise decision.

"Ah, yes, your friend in Washington, D.C. I heard of a call you made. It was a collect call, I believe. Very long. " Adding the last in a tone that implied he knew what was said in the conversation.

He didn't know, of course. The Mayan woman obviously hadn't understood his conversation with Cheng. If she had, Suarez would have probably killed them immediately. "He's a business associate," Ford said, "and he lives in D.C. So what? That doesn't mean we're government agents."

"He must be a very important associate for you to call him from such a remote place."

"I called to ask him about an auction that was held in New York last night. Some artifacts were auctioned off, and I wanted to see how the bidding went. Such things are only worth what people are willing to pay, and so far they're willing to pay a lot. I was checking the current market to see what kind of money we could offer Zacul."

Suarez nodded and took a few steps away from the table. As he did, he picked up Tomlinson's notebook and began to leaf through it. He paused, studying the tracings Tomlinson had taken off the Mayan stela, and Ford sensed Suarez was beginning to soften a little. The notebooks were a strong piece of corroborative evidence. In English Suarez said, "Why this man did not tell us you have come to buy artifacts? Why did he refuse to speak?" He was nodding at Tomlinson.

Through his swollen mouth, Tomlinson croaked, "I thought you were a cop, man. Smuggling that stuff is illegal. Christ, I didn't want to go to jail."

For a moment, Ford thought Suarez was going to laugh, and he decided to press while the going was good. "General Zacul used to deal with an American named Hollins, but who was known here as Rafferty. He had a fake passport—"

"Hollins?" Suarez dropped the notebook and leaned over the table again, pushing his face close, and Ford saw for the first time that the colonel wanted to kill them; as if killing them would pose fewer problems than dealing with them. "Yes, we were aware of this man's real name. How is it you know of this man?" Talking in fast, strident Spanish.

"Hollins was an acquaintance of mine. My associates and I helped him market some of the stuff he transported for Zacul—"

"Then you know where this man is now? You know the whereabouts of Hollins?"

Even though Ford knew that Zacul wanted Hollins, the intensity of Suarez's voice startled him. They wanted him, all right, and they wanted him badly.

"Yes, I know where he is. He's dead."

"Dead?"

"Murdered. Check in my bag, the shaving kit, and you'll find a couple of newspaper clippings about it."

Suarez began to pull things from the bag, took out the clippings and read them anxiously. "It says here that he committed suicide—suicida, no?"

Ford shrugged. "I don't think so. He lived a dangerous life and I think he probably made some kind of mistake; trusted the wrong people. But it doesn't matter. Hollins is gone. That leaves General Zacul with no one to market his stuff. That's why we're here. I got to Hollins's body about an hour before the police. I found a little metal box the murderer had overlooked. There were interesting things in the box, particularly a notebook with his list of connections. That is how I found Zacul's name."

Suarez lunged forward suddenly, taking Ford by the shirt and shaking him. "What else was in the box? What else, do you hear me? Tell me now or I will have my men shoot you this instant."

Ford pulled slowly away from the man, no longer frightened, no longer worried about Suarez killing them—because he had Suarez, really had him. He said, "Some of the things are in my backpack; your men overlooked them in their first search. Some jade carvings, amulet-sized, and two emeralds. I brought them as a token of good faith."

"What else?"

What else? The emeralds weren't enough, and Ford knew he'd have to play his hole card. He said, "An old manuscript with a lot of writing I didn't understand," watching the man's eyes.

"The book," Suarez said in a low voice, but very tense. "Describe the book to me."

Ford smiled. "You're interested in the book?"

"Yes/"

"Let's see. ... It didn't have any covers on it. About thirty-five, forty pages long. Dark ink with some drawings in faded red and gold. That's about all I can remember. "

"You still have this thing?"

"I have it. But I didn't bring it with me. Not to Masagua, anyway."

"Where is it?" Suarez was hunched over him, his fists clenched, as if he wanted to pull the information from Ford's throat.

Ford leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head, comfortable but not wanting to push the advantage too far. "I've done enough talking for one night, Colonel. My friend needs medical attention. And I could use some sleep. If you want to hear any more about the book, you'll have to take me to Zacul."

Suarez gave him a long, cold look. After a few moments he said, "Very well. You will ride with us," but Ford got the impression that Suarez saw this as only a temporary concession.

Ford knew that, barring interference from Zacul, Suarez would kill them.

Ford shook his head. "We'll follow you in our own vehicle. It'll be easier for us to get back that way."

Suarez pulled a snubnosed revolver from the back of his pants, cocked it, and leveled it at Tomlinson. "It has already been decided. Do you wish to argue more?"

Ford got no chance to sleep; nor did he get a moment alone with Tomlinson. Suarez locked them in the room with a guard, then returned an hour later to lead them through the streets of Utatlan to a clearing beside the River of the Sun where four transport trucks waited.

It was 4:30 A.M.

Three of the trucks were filled with boxes of food and other supplies—Suarez had come to town for market day. The back of the fourth truck had room for the dozen or so guerrillas, and that's where Ford and Tomlinson rode, sitting in the open truck among crates of bananas, papayas, and live chickens.

The last thing Suarez told the guerrillas before starting the caravan was if the gringos tried to escape, shoot them.

The trucks made their way across the western valley, throwing a dusty wake in the darkness, while behind them the twinkling lights of Utatlan were absorbed by the low dark hills and then the fiery haze of a slow sunrise. The fresh light was harsh, and it touched the peaks of the volcanos that lay ahead in abrupt striations of light and shadow, showing wedges of mountainside. Two of the volcanos were active, and the roiling smoke, normally gray, was transformed into iridescent orange by the sunrise. The smoke flattened above the coned peaks in a great swath of rust.