Sanibel Flats

EIGHTEEN

Late the next morning there were voices outside the stockade. The door was pushed open and an unfamiliar figure stood staring in, lean in the bright column of light which jarred through.

It was Julio Zacul.

He peered into the darkness for a few moments, trying to see, then turned away as if the effort was undignified. To the guard he said, "Bring the Yankees," and disappeared from the wedge of light.

Ford patted Jake Hollins's leg, telling him to stay put, to hang on. The boy seemed to understand as quickly as he had discovered upon waking that the stake which held his chain was loose.

Now, as then, he said nothing; just blinked brown eyes at Ford.

Zacul was waiting for them, standing with Colonel Suarez in the shade of a wide guanacaste tree. Both wore fatigues and Suarez had something in his hand, something Ford couldn't see, which he held to his nose before handing it back to Zacul. Now they were both lighting cigarettes: Zacul, tall and lean with stars on the epaulets of his shirt, leaning toward Suarez's lighter, his hand cupped around the flame. It was the face from the photograph, older, heavier, but still with that pointed expression: skeptical, judgmental. But there was something different in the eyes now—a glassy look without emotion, like illness. Ford guessed him to be twenty-eight or twenty-nine, six three, two hundred pounds, but with the softness of someone who had grown up inactive and indoors. All the little nervous mannerisms added to the impression of hyperactivity: the way he tapped his fingers incessantly, bloomed his cheeks out as he tasted the cigarette smoke, shifted from one foot to another, talked in sudden bursts. The black hair was combed straight back, shiny with combing, and the face was gaunt, handsome and cruel with the sickle-shaped scar pale on the pale skin of his left cheek. He had a long chin and a strong, straight nose, like a beak. An automatic pistol rode low on his hips in a gunbelt studded with ammunition clips, and Ford had the impression he wore it that way for style, the way another man might wear an ascot.

"Your sleep was good, I hope." Suarez was grinning at them, still enjoying his bad jokes in English.

With Tomlinson a step behind him, Ford stopped just inside the circle of shade. "Maybe you think it's funny, Suarez, but I'm not accustomed to sleeping on the ground with a launch of criminals. Listening to them crap their pants all night, Christ. That's not the way I treat people I want to do business with." Wanting to show displeasure, but not too much, hoping to get a quick reading on what Zacul had planned for them.

Zacul spoke, talking quickly; a man on power overload needing a vent. He said, "The colonel wanted to show you how we treat people who endanger our cause. Bad people. People who lie to us or try to trick us—as a warning. But perhaps he could have chosen a better way. Yes, I'm sure he could have chosen a better way." No introductions, speaking formal classroom English, Zacul gave Suarez a brief look of reproach that Suarez accepted for the fiction it was. They wouldn't have been put in the stockade if Zacul hadn't wanted them there. "He has told me," he continued, "of your business proposition. I am interested. My army and my political organization will soon rule all of Masagua but, for now, we must also be capitalists. We must make money where we can to finance our great cause." Saying this mechanically as his dark eyes searched Ford's face. "This man Hollins, he was a friend of yours, correct?"

"I did business with him a couple of times."

"As did we. I found him a good man, a trustworthy man." The eyes were still boring in on Ford.

"Maybe we're talking about two different men. The Hollins I knew was a thief and a cheat. He got exactly what was coming to him."

"You did business with a man you didn't trust?"

"I make it a habit not to trust anyone I do business with. I don't expect them to trust me so why should I trust them? I like things right up front, goods and money on the table. Don't confuse me with Hollins."

"I confuse you with no one. But Hollins is still in my debt in certain ways, just as it is true we owe him certain things. I wanted to know if you were aware—"

"Any debts between you and Hollins have nothing to do with me. I'd rather not even hear about it. I'm offering you a new deal entirely—and probably a better deal, too. "

"That will be for us to judge, not you."

"So judge. We will pay you forty percent fair market value for quality stuff, and pay you cash in American dollars. Half up front, half after sales. Because we plan to distribute through auction houses in L.A. and Miami as well as New York, we'll have wider distribution, and that means we'll buy a lot more product and still keep the prices up. We'll assume all risks, absorb any losses. All you have to do is provide the product, a landing strip, and the men to load it onto our plane."

"You are talking only about artifacts."

"Why? You have something else to sell?"

From the expression on Suarez's face, they obviously had something else to sell.

Ford said, "If it's what I think it is, we'd be willing to handle it, but in a small way. We'd job it out, not do the actual transporting ourselves. That's too dangerous. The Coast Guard looks for drugs. Pre-Columbian art is a whole lot safer. "

"You seem very sure of yourself for one so new to this business. Perhaps it is because one of your associates works in

Washington, D.C., that you expect few losses? He is an important man, this man?"

"Let's just say we won't have any trouble from U.S. Customs."

Zacul's expression was noncommittal, but his gaze shifted as he inhaled deeply on his cigarette. To Tomlinson he said, "And you, you are an expert on Mayan culture?"

Tomlinson jumped slightly, nervous, but that was okay. It fit the part he was playing. "I'm an expert on Egyptian culture, an Egyptologist. I'm a new student of Mayan culture. There are similarities that, you know, are real interesting—"

"I brought him to help me identify and appraise pieces," Ford cut in. "He's here on a contract basis now, but maybe on a percentage deal later."

"Because you do not trust me?" Zacul said,,smiling slightly.

Ford allowed himself to smile, too. "And I don't expect you to trust me."

"You told Colonel Suarez certain things. Should I trust that those things are true?"

"Like what?"

"He told me of this book you say you have. It is possibly a thing I would like to have for my personal collection. " Said in an offhand way, Zacul acted as if he didn't much care one way or the other.

Ford said, "Colonel Suarez gave me the impression it's very valuable. I thought it was worthless until we talked to him," watching Suarez flinch—and enjoying it.

Zacul said, "Colonel Suarez knows so little about so few things." Suarez actually seemed to shrink, slowing as they walked until he was two steps behind.

"How much do you think the book's worth, General?"

Zacul shrugged while his nervous fingers tapped double time. "In dollars, not much. Not to a collector. But I am a student, and it's a thing I would like to have."

"Then I'll give it to you as a gift when I return for the first shipment. A present of good faith. It's in Costa Rica now. Safe."

Zacul liked that. Ford could see it in his face. "Very generous, but since I'm to have it anyway, why not tell me where it is so I can send a man to bring it? That way I can begin my study of it immediately, and, of course, it would finalize our business agreement."

Playing along, Ford said, "I'm going to have to think about that one, General. After the treatment we've received, I mean-—"

Zacul nodded, looking at Suarez, that same expression of reproach, the same act. "Colonel, these men should have been treated as guests, not as criminals. This man has been beaten. Not by you or your men, I hope?" Speaking in English for their benefit.

Apparently it was a familiar role, and Suarez didn't bother to hide the smirk. "It seemed a necessary thing at the time, General."

"That is not the way I wish to run my army. A man must be judged fairly, not in some bar in Utatlan. I am very disappointed. From now on, these men will be treated as my personal guests. And you may consider yourself confined to quarters for the rest of the morning. "

Suarez saluted smartly, then ambled off toward the lake-shore where he began to give orders to soldiers who were unloading boxes from several small boats.

Zacul was already bored with them. His attention wandered; he dropped the fake formality and kept lighting cigarettes. He had more important things to do than play host to two profit whores—Americans at that. That was fine with Ford. It meant he believed their story. That he paid them any attention at all was an indicator of how badly he wanted the book.

They had followed him through the camp to the hillside where men on scaffoldings were digging out the remains of at least one great pyramid, maybe another, though Zacul said it was too soon to tell. He led them up stone steps, like gray dominos, then through a low postern. It was cool inside the temple and smelled of earth and bat guano. There were vines growing out of the walls.

"There have been many earthquakes since the time of the conquistadors," Zacul told them. "You can see how this temple has been damaged. But in its historical value, I think this find equals that of Tikal in Guatemala. As presidente, I have proclaimed it a national preserve, the Julio Zacul Park of Kings, in honor of our great revolution and the Maya people. There will soon be tours on those small carts such as you have in the United States."

As president? Tours on small carts? Something behind those glassy eyes had lost a hinge, was swinging back and forth through reality. The guy was already living in the future.

Tomlinson was on his tiptoes, studying'the wooden lintel above the entranceway, saying "This is zapote wood, as strong as iron but it lasts longer." Speaking to Ford but to convince Zacul he knew what he was talking about. "Take a look at this, Doc—" He was touching a small carving that had been etched outside the frame of the lintel's intricate glyph-work. The carving was very old, roughly done, and graphically obscene. "It's a graffito. The Mayan workers loved graffiti. Probably close to nine hundred years old. I bet it used to drive the priests crazy."

"More than a thousand years old," Zacul put in sharply, not contesting Tomlinson's expertise but to establish his own as superior. He looked at Ford. "This man calls you Doc. As in doctor?"

"That's right," Ford said, but offered no further explanation. He told Zacul he hoped the lintel would be included in the first shipment; said he felt they could auction it for thirty, maybe forty thousand dollars. Zacul said it would be worth at least eighty. He said it in a way that left no room for discussion. Zacul told them the lintel would be cut out of the doorway and ready for the first plane.

Zacul led them down the hill, not commenting on the other digs going on near the main temple. He spoke to his men in a barking Spanish, filled with slang and profanities which illustrated his personality more clearly than his formal English. Some of the work areas were screened from sight by awnings and an odd smell drifted from them: ether and gasoline. Once, when the general walked away for a few moments to speak with a worker, Tomlinson whispered, "Cocaine kitchens. Smell the fumes? They make the stuff right here. "

Ford nodded. It was something Tomlinson would know by smell.

As they finished the tour, Zacul still had given no indication they had found the calendar or were even looking. But Ford knew they must be close. They had already salvaged at least two of the emeralds—the stones he had found back on Tequesta Bank. Ford wondered if they had found any more since Rafe's theft.

The question was soon answered.

Zacul led them to a clearing in which a great canvas awning had been raised and encircled with concertina wire. Two guards stood at the entrance holding assault rifles while, inside, several men wearing rubber gloves worked over vats that were probably filled with acid. Beyond the work area was a large storage site studded with Maya stelae, large and small, like a graveyard. The folding tables were covered with stone carvings and ornate pottery. At the rear of the area was another one of the portable fiberglass huts, this with a third guard standing at the door.

Ford guessed the concertina wire and the extra guard had been added after Rafe's last visit.

Zacul told Tomlinson to look all he wanted; asked him to give him an idea of what some of the smaller stelae might be worth. The question was too innocent, implying a lack of expertise that Zacul would have never admitted even if it were true. It was a test; the test Wendy Stafford had warned him about back in Costa Rica, and now it was up to Tomlinson.

Tomlinson walked slowly along the stone rows, stopping here and there, squinting at glyphs, touching some of them. He seemed to pay special attention to the first row, a dozen stones no higher than his thighs.

Finally he said, "Stelae this size are the easiest to sell. They're portable enough for people to display them easily in their homes, but still big enough to be impressive. Real works of art." He was squatting, one hand on a stone, looking at Zacul. "I guess the median rate for one of these stela might be nine grand; probably average around eight if you spread them around, market them right."

Ford winced at the expression on Zacul's face. "Then you would pay me approximately four thousand American dollars apiece for those stones?" Like he was springing a trap.

Tomlinson stood. "It's up to Dr. Ford what he pays you, but I couldn't recommend he pay more than a couple hundred or so apiece. The stones in this row are copies. They're good copies, but it still adds to the risk. I'm just telling you what they'd sell for if we found the right buyers. It would be dangerous, though. If collectors got word Doc was pushing bad goods, it could mess up his whole operation. He'd make money up front but he'd lose in the long run when word got around."

Ford was so relieved he had a hard time manufacturing the proper indignation. "What are you trying to pull here, Zacul? I offer you a fair business deal and now you try to push off fake stuff on me. I don't like that. It's bad for everyone concerned."

Zacul was anything but meek. "You said you don't trust me? Well, I don't trust you. It is an easy thing for two men to say they have come to my camp to buy artifacts. They might come for other reasons and have absolutely no knowledge of what it is they're pretending to buy. I test in my own way—" Now he looked pointedly at Ford. "—and you will not use that tone of voice with me again." He let the stare linger before saying to Tomlinson, "How did you know these pieces are counterfeit?"

Tomlinson's expression was thoughtful, like a professor waiting to elaborate. "For one thing, I had the advantage of seeing them all together. The glyph patterns are similar and the stones are all approximately the same size. A buyer wouldn't have that advantage, but someone who really knew what they're doing might notice that they're made of aggregate, not pure stone. They've been poured into a mold, like cement, before you had your people antique them. Then there's the glyph of the moon goddess repeated four times on each of them. On the first glyph on each stone the nipple of her left breast is convexed where the mold has been pitted. A small convexity like that wouldn't have lasted a hundred years, let alone a thousand."

Zacul nodded slowly. "I will have my men tend to it. Come, I wish to show you a few more things."

Zacul kept his best stuff inside the fiberglass hut. There were fireproof drawers filled with jade amulets and carvings. In one, Ford got a quick look at another large emerald before the drawer was slammed shut again. Rafe hadn't taken them all, or they had found more. The best piece was a mosaic, a life-size human mask made of several hundred intricately worked jade shards. The mask had the humped Mayan nose and haunting, hollow eyes, like a skull. Zacul said a similar piece had recently been sold on the black market to a museum for $140,000 and wanted to know if Ford had any connections with museum curators. When Ford said he did not, Zacul told him to cultivate some. It was a flat statement, neither an order nor a request. He added, "American museums are able to pay more than most private collectors, and they are experts at legitimizing the provenance of illegal imports. Not long ago an American curator was fired by her board of directors for notifying the customs authorities after being offered a particularly valuable but stolen gold monstrance from Colombia. Some museums value art more than they value the law. "

"I didn't read about that," said Ford.

"It's because nothing was written about it. But I know that it is true. You can be sure other curators know of it, so they may be even more anxious to bid on this mask. You will investigate the possibilities."

"At the same percentage we've agreed upon? You can bet I will."

Zacul pushed the drawer that held the mask closed. "We have not yet agreed upon a percentage," and walked away.

They followed him back through the camp, hurrying to keep up. He showed them another fiberglass hut where he said they would sleep, then stopped outside the screened kitchen adjacent to the huge open cooking area that sided the main mess. Inside was a young man in an apron, stirring something in a small pot. He was beaming at Zacul but not making eye contact, sweating over the stove. Zacul said, "This is the officers' kitchen and my personal chef, Oscar. He will prepare your meals, show you where to bathe, and tend to anything else you may need. Tell him what you want and he will provide it. I will have your luggage returned to you, minus any weapons you may have been carrying."

Ford said, "Does that include the two emeralds and my jade?"

Zacul eyed him coolly. "Those things were stolen from me by your friend Hollins. But I'll allow you to sell the jade. As a gesture of good faith. The emeralds I will keep. "

Ford considered protesting but, instead, simply nodded his acquiescence.

Zacul said, "You have free access to the camp that lies between the road and the sea. You may go to the beach, but do not stray near the dig site, into the sector near the bluff, or down the road that leads to Tambor. My men have orders to shoot on sight, and they will not hesitate."

Ford said, "We were hoping to leave tomorrow, but first I'd like to get the percentages down, maybe draft an agreement—"

"You wish to pay me cash? American dollars?"

"Sure . . . what else?"

"The man we knew as Rafferty paid in weaponry. I'd hoped you'd have his connections."

"We might be able to work something out—"

But Zacul was already walking away, not listening, giving orders to Ford over his shoulder. "Your associate will leave for Costa Rica tomorrow by truck. You will not. You will stay with us until he returns with the book you so generously offered to give me. At that time we will discuss percentages and logistics. As of now, the terms you have offered sound agreeable—with the exception of special items, like the jade mask. "

"But Tomlinson doesn't know where the book is—" "Then you will tell him." Zacul's dark eyes took on that penetrating look; wild, near the borders of control. "You will not leave here until I have it."

Julio Zacul returned to his quarters, ignoring salutes, ignoring the garbage heap these peasant soldiers had allowed his camp to become, eyes focused only on the doors that were quickly opened for him, until he threw himself on his bed, his face wet, his veins burning, his brain fighting a gray deliquescence, that woozy feeling of reaching critical mass on the cocaine express. "Suarez! Suarez, you shit-heel! Suarez!" He closed his eyes, breathing deeply while his heart pounded in his ears, then he opened his eyes, allowing his vision to blur within the symmetric zone of the ceiling fan overhead. What would Guzman think if he saw him now?

A dark thought, and Zacul cringed as it lingered. Abimael Guzman Reynoso, that great man; Guzman who had told them all that to triumph over the capitalists, they must not fall victim to the weaknesses of the capitalists: no alcohol, no tobacco, no drugs, no sex; nothing that was pleasurable until they had eliminated the cancer, cut it out and killed it. Of course, Guzman himself had chain-smoked cigarettes and bedded many of his students—young women and men—but that was all right. Guzman was the swordsman; they were the sword.

Zacul had been seventeen when he left the house of his wealthy father to attended the University of San Cristobal in the department state of Ayacucho, in the mountains southeast of Lima, Peru. It was there he was assigned to Guzman's philosophy class; it was there he fell under Guzman's spell.

There were already rumors about the man. It was well

known he was an ardent Chinese Maoist; it was not well known that, by his careful recruiting of fellow professors, he had gained control of the university. Sendero Luminoso, the Shining Path, had already been founded, and Guzman's philosophy—that capitalism could be eliminated only by killing without conscience—was soon its only curriculum.

"Terror," Guzman had told them, "is our only weapon. In the end, the people we terrorize will get down on their knees to thank us."

Zacul, always a good student, had also always been a moody, solitary boy. That changed when he met Guzman and was accepted into Sendero. His first assignment (and that's what Guzman called them—assignments) was a raid on the village of Lucanamarca. It was a summer morning in February when Zacul and twenty others, armed with rifles and axes, entered the village looking for an informant. The villagers, who were mountain peasants, insisted they knew nothing of an informant. Zacul had watched transfixed as the leader of his group ordered all the women and children of the village into a church, then set the church on fire. As mothers tried to push their children through the windows of the burning building, members of Sendero used their axes to kill the children. It was a horrifying thing to watch, yet it had also filled him with a strange elation; a tingling in the spine. Zacul had drawn closer the blazing church as if drawn by a magnet, when suddenly a village woman skidded around a corner to face him. She was as surprised as he by the confrontation, her eyes a study in pure terror, and Zacul had continued to walk toward her as she backed away . . . back, back, back, her hands thrust outward, and then she had dropped to her knees—not at all what he had expected. Instead of fighting for her life, she had simply knelt there, her eyes looking up at him, body slack, knees slightly spread in complete submission, her face very pale but calm. The first time he swung the ax, his aim was bad, and the blade cut through her shoulder. She had kicked some, yet the expression in her eyes was unchanged—as if she had awarded her body to him, completely to him, and Zacul had never felt such a sensuous rush of emotion in his life. Once again he had swung the ax, burying it in the top of her head and, though the feeling of pleasure lingered, the climactic emotion faded with her last breath.

He and his comrades killed more than sixty people that day; eleven by his own hand, and each produced in him that same wondrous feeling. Later Guzman personally congratulated him, then took him to bed—a strange night of pain and pleasure that ended with him sobbing in Guzman's arms. Zacul moved very quickly up the Sendero ladder after that. He was among the first assigned to take the movement out of the country. Masagua, Guzman had told him with tears in his eyes, was ready for the new generation.

On the bed, Zacul rolled onto his side, still breathing heavily. "Suarez, you pig. Suarez. Get in here!"

There was a tap at the door and Suarez came in quietly, as a nurse might enter the room. "I'm sorry, Julio. I was only just told that you were calling." He had opened a plastic bottle and was tapping out small blue capsules into his palm. Zacul grabbed three and swallowed them quickly, then lay back again, already feeling better, knowing the pills would soon do their job. He said, "The two Yankees—do you trust them?"

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

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

"If he doesn't?"

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

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

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

"Of course."

"We'll shoot them this afternoon."

"Very well."

"I'll shoot them."

"The boy, too?"

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

"Certainly."

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

Suarez said, "I will notify the cook."

Ford said, "I'm looking for frogs."

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

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

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

"No."

"Good. We need a bunch of them. "

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yeah."

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

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

"Grab it."

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

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

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

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

"That sounds pretty chancey."

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

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

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

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

"Like who?"

"You said you knew people there."

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

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

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

"I don't know, man."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

NINETEEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"Where? Toward the cliff?"

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

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

"Come on."

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

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

Ford grabbed his arm. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to talk to Zacul, that's what I'm gonna do. I'm going to try and talk some sense into him. He's got no reason to hurt that child. He's got no reason to hurt us either. I'll make him see that!"

Ford pulled Tomlinson back into the hut. "I can't let you do that."

"Let go of my arm, goddamn it!"

"I can't let you—"

Tomlinson yanked his arm free, yelling "You son of a bitch, you got us into this, and now you won't let me get us out!" He lunged for the door again, but Ford caught him by the shirt, swung him around, and slammed him into the wall.

"Tomlinson? Tomlinson. I want you to take some deep breaths. Nice and easy." Speaking softly, trying to get through the shield of paranoia; trying to reach the man inside. "You're not thinking clearly. You understand?"

Tomlinson was looking at the floor, trembling, refusing to meet Ford's gaze.

"There's nothing we can do now. If we try, Zacul will kill us all. Each and every one of us. You know that."

Tomlinson nodded slowly, then something broke in him and he began to cry softly. He pulled away from Ford, went to his cot and sat down, his face buried in his hands.

"We'll be okay, Tomlinson. We'll make it. We're all going to make it." Speaking with confidence, but not feeling it, Ford opened the door of the hut and went outside to sit beneath a tree.

Half an hour later, Tomlinson came out. He looked scraggly and very tired. He stood above Ford, saying "I really freaked out, man. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"It's like a disease."

"Yeah, well . . . like you said: We all have our quirks."

"I can't believe shit like this goes on in the world. "

"Every hour of every day it goes on. Someplace. "

"People back in the States don't realize, man. This is like something out of a movie. "

"No. You've got it backward. Life back home is like something out of a movie. That's what people don't realize."

"You think the kid is dead?"

"I haven't heard any shots."

"I hope not, man. I really couldn't take that. I'd be ready to cash it in right here."

What Ford was hoping was that Jake Hollins wasn't hungry, or didn't like fish. . . .

Oscar served them in their hut an hour after sundown. When Ford asked if the general had enjoyed the meal, the chef

straightened himself, saying grandly "The general can wait while I serve a man who is a true gourmet," rolling his r's, which gave the French word an earthy sound.

Tomlinson and Ford touched their spoons to their lips and raved about the soup, though they did not taste it. Pleased, Oscar complained more about the bad cooking conditions, made more excuses for the poor food, and got more compliments from Ford.

When the chef was gone, Ford said, "Don't eat anything."

Tomlinson stopped with a spoonful of beans in mid arc. "I thought you said it was just the fish chowder."

"He could have used the same ladle. He could have poured some of the soup into the rice to spice it up. We don't know what he did. Don't eat anything."

Tomlinson put his tray on the ground and leaned toward Ford. "What the hell is in those fish gizzards?"

Ford said, "You really want me to answer that? Don't you assume some responsibility if you know?"

"Yeah, but I'm not hypocrite enough to refuse to listen now."

Ford said, "If that's the way you want it," and began to scrape the food off onto the ground behind the cots. "Those kind of fish, puffers, are found in warm waters all over the world. The flesh is okay as long as it's been cleaned properly or if the fish hasn't been injured during its life cycle. But only fools take the chance because the liver, the gall bladder, some of the other viscera contain a crystalline alkaloid. If you eat an injured fish, you get sick no matter how carefully it was cleaned. I've seen it happen."

"That's all that happens? You get sick?"

Ford made no reply.

Tomlinson pressed. "You mean you've seen people die, that's what you're saying." Tomlinson was beginning to slip back into the pattern of shallow breaths again, getting anxious.

"No. I've never seen it. But I watched a physician save three people from dying once. He had the knowledge and he had the right antidote. Without it . . Ford shrugged.

"You're not telling me what I think you're telling me? You're not going to kill all these people, are you, Ford? You know the antidote, right?"

"I remember the name of the drug and the dosage."

"But what makes you think they have the antidote here?"

"Nothing—I haven't given it much thought."

"Even if they did, you wouldn't offer it to Zacul." Stated flatly in disapproval.

Ford opened the door and put the plates outside. "It's too bad the general forced that doctor off the cliff. He would have helped. In a way, Zacul killed himself and didn't even know it."

The oil lamp was out but Ford was still awake. They were both dressed, lying on their cots. He said, "Muscarine. That's the poison. It took me about an hour this afternoon to remember the name. I kept thinking mascara, like the stuff women wear. It's also found in certain mushrooms, only I don't know which kind—the poison, I mean."

Tomlinson said, "Next time I read some label with natural herbs and spices, I'm gonna be less enthusiastic." Then he said, "Sshhhh. What's that?"

There was the sound of a door slamming and loud voices. There was panic in the voices, and Ford felt the panic vibrate within him, adrenaline mixed with elation. Tomlinson said, "Someone's coming," and Ford swung his feet off the cot, waiting.

There was the heavy thud of footsteps outside: not the sound of someone running, but of someone trying to run, dragging his feet and stumbling. Then there was a banging on the door, rattling the whole fiberglass structure. The door flew open before Ford could get to it, and there stood Julio Zacul. The flashlight he carried was pointed at the ground, bathing him in a grotesque light. He wore only pants and his gunbelt, no shoes. His chest made shallow lunges, desperate for air, and he was bent at the waist, his free hand thrown across his bare abdomen in an attitude of pain. His face was contorted, oily with sweat, and his eyes were wide and wild as he said, groaning, "Something very bad has happened. Something very bad. You are a doctor, no? You must help me,"

When Ford just stood there, Zacul reached out to grab him and almost fell. Holding onto Ford's shirt, he repeated, "I need help! You are a doctor?"

Ford took Zacul's wrist and pushed the hand away. "I'm a doctor. So is this man. But we're not physicians."

Zacul moaned.

Ford said, "I thought we met a doctor when we were in your stockade. Why don't you get him?"

"No, no, he is gone. He can do nothing." Zacul's speech was labored, each word an effort. "I'm sick, can't you see that? We are all very sick. You must have some training. Do something!"

Ford took the flashlight from him and took him by the arm. "Do you have any medical supplies in camp?"

"Yes. A few. In my quarters."

"Then take us to them."

Ford and Tomlinson half carried, half followed Zacul across the grounds. The moon was over the mountains, three-quarters full, and by its light Ford could see that many of the soldiers had left their posts, gathering the way some people gather at car wrecks, fascinated with tragedy but nervous, too, standing in small groups, whispering.

"I am going to be sick. Let me go." They let Zacul fall to the ground and the soldiers shifted uncomfortably as they watched their general bark at the earth and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

Ford heard one of the soldiers mutter, "See? He is dying. I have heard that some are already dead." But when Ford looked at the soldiers and nodded, they pretended not to see, averting their eyes.

"Let's go, Zacul. Let's get you inside."

Zacul and the other officers were billeted in a separate compound, a fenced grounds where a two-story block and wood house was surrounded by several fiberglass huts. Zacul led them into the main building, through a dark room with metal desks and the sharp acidic odor of a printing machine. The next room was much larger, an officers' mess and recreation room. There was a pool table, a bar with cheap plastic chairs, and, all around the room, dozens of candles had been lighted. There was the smell of incense, too; it was like walkipg into a brothel.

Judging from the magazines strewn around the floor, a brothel was closer to being what the room was used for. Tomlinson considered one of the magazines for a moment, then kicked it closed with his foot, a grimace of distaste on his face.

From somewhere a radio blared loud Latin music and on the long dining table were liquor bottles and smoldering ashtrays. Several of the bottles had been overturned and the gray carpeting below was stained. There were also two small bowls filled with fine white powder on the table. One of those had spilled, too, covering the table like talcum. Ford saw all of this peripherally, for the men who lay on the floor dominated the wreckage in the room.

It had been a party some would not live to remember. There were six men—no, seven. They wore only pants or were naked. Some sat staring blankly at the wall, trying to breathe over their thick, distended tongues. Others writhed on the carpeting in their own vomitus: eerie, contorted figures in the flickering light. Others lay deathly still, their knees pulled toward their chests, their eyes opened and fixed, but still breathing. Ford recognized Suarez as one of those still alive. He was on his knees, salivating uncontrollably. Only one uniformed soldier tended the men, wiping them with cloths. The others, apparently, had fled.

Ford asked, "Are the medical supplies in here?" Zacul, taken by another spasm, pointed at a box on the wall. As Tomlinson helped lift the box off its brackets, Ford whispered, "Start looking for Jake. He's got to be around here somewhere. And grab a weapon if you get the chance. "

"No guns, Doc. Sorry, but no way."

"Goddamn it, Tomlinson—" But the man was already gone, rushing off to search the building.

Ford put the box on the table, unlatched it, saying to Zacul in a louder voice "It looks like you guys got hold of some bad cocaine, General."

"Yes, yes, that's possible. Is there something for the pain? I can't stand the pain anymore."

Ford went through the supplies quickly. "There's no medicine in here, this is a first aid kit. I can't do anything with this."

Zacul yelled to the lone soldier who soon returned with an even bigger metal box. Ford put it on the table and opened it. The kit was Soviet issue, labeled in several languages and very well equipped. The drugs were packaged in groups according to specific need: shock, bacterial disease, cardiac arrest, field anesthesiology. Ford opened three of the anesthesiology packages, separated the syringe kits, and placed six vials of atropine sulfate on the table. He hesitated, then took out one vial of normal saline solution. "There are things here that'll make you feel better, General, but I don't know how to treat for cocaine overdose. I'm going to need help for that."

Zacul groaned again.

"Is there a doctor in Tambor?"

"No."

"Is there a phone in Tambor? A place I can call a hospital and get some advice on how to treat you?"

"Yes! That is what we must do. Go to Tambor!" Zacul was hunched on the carpet, his head between his knees.

Ford was drawing saline solution into one of the syringes, holding it up to the light. "Is there someone around who can fly those helicopters?"

"The Cuban, Arevilio. He is our trainer. The others are away in the city."

"Tell someone to find him. "

Zacul called to the soldier again, demanding that he bring Arevilio immediately. But the soldier shook his head and pointed to a motionless figure on the floor. The Cuban appeared to already be dead.

Ford said, "I'm going to have to drive you. We'll need a truck and I'm going to need someone else who speaks English. If I get an American doctor on the phone, someone is going to have to ask him questions while Tomlinson and I work on you and your officers."

"There is Colonel Suarez—" *

"Suarez is sick, too." Talking as he loaded the other syringes with atropine sulfate, Ford then injected the saline solution into Zacul's arm.

The saline solution was a placebo; it would have no effect. Atropine sulfate was the antidote.

Zacul was coughing, rubbing his arm. "Is it so necessary? I'm too sick to think. Why do you make these demands!"

Ford said, "It's necessary unless you want to die. Someone else who speaks English."

When Zacul only groaned in reply, Ford finally just came out and said it: "What about the little American boy who was in the stockade?"

Zacul raised himself to his knees and seemed to focus for a moment. "What?"

"The boy, Jake Hollins—where is he?"

Through the bleary eyes came a sharp look, and he asked, "How did you know he was no longer in the stockade?" and Ford realized he had stumbled badly.

"I thought I saw Colonel Suarez release him."

Zacul said, "Yes, of course—the boy could help," speaking very carefully, in a way that made Ford uneasy. "He's here. In my quarters—there, with the hippie now."

Tomlinson, looking grim, was leading Jake Hollins by the hand. The boy had been bathed, his clothes washed, and he looked very small walking beside Tomlinson. His chin was down, like a shy child at a circus, and his head moved timidly as he took in the chaos around him. Ford knelt, touched the boy's arm, and the boy looked up at him and said, "Whelp, that lil* house of ours got wrecked again," with a southern accent that was nice to hear after so much Spanish.

Ford said, "We'll build a better one," before glancing at Tomlinson. "Is he okay?"

Tomlinson was glaring at Zacul, his face pointed, really angry. "You're a good argument for euthanasia, you know that, Zacul—" But, before he'd even finished the sentence, Zacul had grabbed the boy, holding him by the throat, his pistol out, barrel pressed against the child's head.

"This is what you came for, isn't it? I don't know why I didn't see it before!" Then he was on his feet, still holding the boy, eyes glazed but lucid enough to say "You're not going to leave me here. If you make any move against me, I'll shoot the boy. You are going to take me to Tambor. You are going to find help for me—" talking in surges between deep gulps of air while the boy, already crying, called to Ford, "I don't like this man! Make him let go!"

Ford had his arms out, holding Tomlinson back, and when Tomlinson tried to call out, "But you've already been given the antidote—" Ford drove his elbow backward and heard Tomlinson gasp with pain. If Zacul found out Ford knew the antidote, they'd all soon be dead.

Ford said, "Okay, Zacul. We'll take you to Tambor. Just don't hurt the kid."

TWENTY

Soldiers were running. Ford couldn't figure out why. They were running through the mud in the moonlight, glancing over their shoulders as if something were chasing them. Some of them were shooting, too, firing wildly toward the road that led to Tambor.

Ford had been standing on the porch. His glasses were fogged from the smoke inside and he cleaned them on his shirt, trying to see what it was the soldiers were running from. But when the shooting started, he dropped to the ground, as did Zacul. "What in the hell's going on here?"

Zacul just groaned and held tight to the boy. He was having trouble breathing. His tongue was so swollen that it was difficult for him to speak. When he did speak, it was in a ranting Spanish—part delirium, part fear—but his pistol never wavered.

Now Ford could hear more shooting, like strings of firecrackers popping in the distance. Then there were three explosions in quick succession, each closer than the other, the last hitting a fiberglass hut not far from the stockade. The explosion shook the ground and threw Roman candle streamers through a roiling ball of white smoke into the high trees. There was a momentary pause, then another explosion that whuffed as if drawing air before several fuel tanks ignited in an orb of white fire that crackled in the wet leaves behind the compound.

Through the smoke came more soldiers, more of Zacul's troops. They were yelling: some in pain but most out of fear.

They weren't just running, they were fleeing; trying to escape this unseen force coming from the road to Tambor.

Ford got to his feet, pulling Zacul with him. "Let's get the hell out of here. "

Tomlinson, a step behind, called, "Are we being attacked? I don't understand what's happening."

Ford, who could make no sense of it either, didn't answer. They covered fifty more yards before Zacul stopped, gasping. "No more, I can run no more. I'm very sick. Please have my orderly find us a truck." As if his orderly hadn't run with the others.

Ford said, "We try driving to Tambor and we'll die for sure. Someone's army is coming down that road and I bet they'd love to get their hands on you."

Zacul said, "Then we'll take a boat, that's what we'll do . . . take a nice boat on the lake away from the noise of all these cowards." His mind wandering in delirium.

Crouching beside him, Tomlinson whispered, "Why isn't he any better? You gave him the shot. Those guys inside started to breathe easier almost right away." Tomlinson had stayed behind to give the injections before catching up.

"Maybe he's just unlucky."

"Two of them were already dead. I think I saved Suarez, though."

"You would."

Tomlinson caught his arm. "You didn't give it to Zacul, did you? The antidote."

Ford said, "I think we'd better keep moving."

Tomlinson still held his arm. "Why don't you answer me? You didn't. You didn't give him the shot!"

Ford pulled his arm away easily, looking into Tomlinson's eyes. "I said we'd better keep moving."

More mortar rounds were coming in now, some exploding as they hit the tops of the trees. Diesel fires had spread from the trucks to some of the living quarters. The smell of melting fiberglass mixed with the stink of burning rubber and black smoke swirled in the cool wind coming off the lake.

Ford called, "Let's go!" and they made it across the parade ground, into the trees before Zacul collapsed once more, pulling the boy down with him. He was,having more cramps, really hurting. He kept waving the pistol around. He wanted to know why the medicine wasn't working. Ford said he had to give it more time. Zacul said he couldn't stand the pain much longer and maybe he should kill the boy now; kill everyone now. Ford, crouching from the mortar fire and the gun, lied, "At least you're looking better, General. Your color's coming back."

When a mortar round cut the top off a tree about fifty yards away, Ford pressed his face against the ground as leaves and chunks of limb smacked the mud around them. Zacul raised his head and began to scream "I order you to stop! I order you to stop this minute!" getting crazier as he got sicker. What was keeping the man going?

The boat dock was down a steep hill and extended about forty yards into the lake. The dock was very wide, commercial grade, and built of huge timbers high off the water. Two flat-bottomed barges were tied to it and one small skiff. There was a high outcrop of rock and mud where a bulldozer had cut the road to the lake, and Ford told Zacul and Tomlinson to stay under the ledge while he got the boat ready.

The shooting was getting closer now. Looking up the hill, he could see soldiers silhouetted by the flaming buildings. These soldiers weren't running, they were stalking, taking their time. Using grenades, too, judging by the sound. And shooting at anything that moved, which was the way of jungle fighters.

Ford sprinted down the dock and dropped to his belly, inspecting the boats. He considered taking one of the barges. A barge would offer more protection against the incoming rounds, but it would be like steering a semi and slow, too. It was about four miles across the lake to Tambor, and he didn't want to spend an hour getting there. At the end of the dock was a skiff, and Ford crawled out to have a look. It was a wooden boat with a high sharp bow, about eighteen feet long with a forty-horsepower Johnson on the transom. It wouldn't be fast but at least they could get it up on plane. He slid off the dock and climbed down a wooden ladder into the skiff. There were two plastic six-gallon fuel tanks in the stern. One was nearly full, the other empty. He threw the empty tank into the water before checking the rubber fuel line, making sure the bulb was primed. Then he pulled the starter rope and the boat lunged, almost throwing him into the water. Someone had left the damn thing in gear. He punched the shifting lever into neutral, then tried again. It took him three more pulls before the engine caught, throwing blue smoke in the moonlight while the whole boat trembled.

Ford climbed back onto the dock and began to run toward the rock outcrop. Halfway to shore, something detonated the water beside him and the wash almost swept him away. He fell and skidded along the planking. He lay there for a few moments, then got shakily to his feet. His ears were ringing and his hands tingled. He was wet, but it seemed to be water, not blood. Tomlinson was coming toward him, herding Zacul and the boy to the boat.

Another mortar round hit and the wedge of rock under which they had been hiding disintegrated into a great plume of debris that came raining down into the water, clattering onto the dock. Ford covered his head, yelling "They see us! Get into the boat!" But he didn't say anything more, just crouched there looking—stunned by what he saw.

The dock was aglitter with pale-green light, a light that refracted abrupt facets like the shimmer of broken glass or shattered ice. The source of the light was scattered across the dock like gravel and some of the bright orbs drifted down through the clear water, tumbling with the brief incandescence of meteors.

Emeralds.

Tomlinson went running past him, kicking more of the stones into the water. Ford made no effort to grab the stones but just watched, transfixed. Then he heard a grunting noise, like gagging, and Zacul was standing in front of him. Zacul wasn't looking at the dock, he was staring at something else, and Ford followed his gaze upward. There, in the smoking hillside, were more emeralds. They were embedded in a great jagged wheel of stone that protruded from the earth. Even though one large chunk of the stone had been sheared away, it was still huge, maybe twelve feet in diameter, bigger than seemed possible. Emeralds sparkled on its surface like sequins, making odd designs that Ford knew were constellations.

"The calendar," Zacul whispered. "After all this, I've finally found it." He turned, letting his pistol drop to his side, and Ford immediately yanked the boy away from him, yelling hoarsely: "Run! Get in the boat!" expecting Zacul to whirl around with the pistol. -He didn't. He stood looking at the great calendar, bent slightly at the waist with pain, but oblivious to everything else.

Suddenly he turned to Ford, his eyes wild. "You will help me. Some of the stones are falling into the water. Help me pick them up!"

From down the quay, Tomlinson yelled, "Come on, Doc! We're waiting!"

Ford said, "You're on your own, Zacul. We're leaving."

Zacul pointed the gun at him, "Not now! Not yet!" his face so crazy with pain and greed that Ford knew he was about to shoot.

Ford bent, picked up several emeralds in each hand, and pushed the stones into his pockets obediently, then lunged suddenly, hitting Zacul with his shoulder. Zacul backpedaled, tripped, and landed back first on the planking. He lay on the dock fighting to breathe, but he still had the pistol and Ford kicked him hard in the ribs as he lifted it to fire. The explosion and the sudden vacuum Ford felt near his ear were simultaneous, like an electrical shock. His legs collapsed and he dropped down onto the general. Zacul clubbed him behind the ear with the butt of the pistol and managed to roll away, using his free hand to scratch at Ford's eyes. Ford locked his hand around Zacul's right wrist and used his open hand to punch the man's elbow inward. Zacul screamed with pain, as if he'd touched something hot, and the gun flew out of his hand, skittering across the dock. Ford crawled after it, picked it up, and, crouching low, swung it toward Zacul's face. "Rafe Hollins would want me to shoot you, Zacul."

The guerrilla leader was up on his knees, palms pressed outward. "Don't kill me, you can't kill me. Don't you see? We'll have money now, lots of money! You can't kill me."

Ford said, "I already have," just before Zacul made a desperate lunge at the pistol. Ford could have pulled the trigger; he didn't. Instead, he batted the weak body away, and Zacul's momentum carried him off the dock and into the black, black waters of the lake.

The sharks should have gotten him. Maybe they did. Ford didn't wait around to watch.

He could hear Zacul yelling as he ran for the boat, then an abrupt scream like death itself, but Ford didn't hear anything more because another mortar round hit the dock behind him and suddenly he was flying . . . tumbling through space and into a void which was as black as the eye of God itself.

TWENTY-ONE

If it was a dream, it was like no dream he'd ever had.

Before him was an oblong space swollen with pearly light. The light came through in rays as well defined as laser beams, touching his face and his body with mild warmth. The area of incandescence dominated his view and filled the room—for he seemed to be in some kind of room, though he didn't turn his head to be sure. He could look only at the light, drawn to the refulgence like the jungle moths he sometimes thought about, the creatures that gathered one night of the year to fly toward the full moon.

Maybe I'm dead. . . .

He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all—not that he feared nonexistence, but more because of the implications of being bathed in celestial light. His pragmatic side rebelled at that, like the victim of a cosmic joke.

Something moved beside him, and he still did not turn his head. A shape came into view, gliding toward the source of the light. The shape sprouted arms, reached up, and the light was suddenly dimmed, as if curtains had been drawn. Then the thing with arms turned toward him and he could see that the shape was that of a woman; a woman dressed in white but with long black hair, though he couldn't see her clearly for his eyes refused to open completely. His eyelashes were a veil and he watched her glide toward him in soft focus. She reached out and he felt her fingers touch his face.

"Ford? Won't you please wake up? Ford, you dear ugly man."

Ford felt he should struggle to answer, for now he recognized the voice and the voice fit the face. But he didn't struggle. He tried to speak but, when no words came, he simply lay there feeling oddly complacent and very tired, an observer, not a participant. He was having a dream and this woman was part of the dream, Pilar Balserio.

Now both of Pilar's hands were on his face and she was leaning over him. She kissed his lips softly. "Do you know what the doctor says? The doctor says that sometimes people in a coma can hear everything. He says they have to be reminded that to get better all they have to do is open their eyes. So now I'm telling you: Wake up, Ford. Please. Come back to me now because there are things you should know and I must leave in just a few hours. Ford?" She waited as if expecting a response, then said, "I may never have the chance to speak with you again."

A reply formed in Ford's mind, though his lips still refused to transmit words. But he felt that that was all right; that she would understand. Couldn't she see that he was smiling?

There was a rustling noise, a sudden feeling of warmth, and Ford realized Pilar was lying beside him, her arm over his chest, holding him tight, her mouth against his ear. She was trembling; trembling and whispering into his ear so that it was as if her mind was speaking directly to his mind.

"I'm frightened, Ford. I've done so many bad things, but it hurts me most to know that I've hurt you. I want to tell you about those things—not because I want to share the guilt but because you are a rational man. You have a right to know. I won't add confusion to the pain I have already caused you. The night before you left, the night we made love . . . I'm the one who arranged for the guards to knock on my door at that hour. That's why you had to run. I knew that once I had loved you, really loved you in the way I wanted, I wouldn't have the strength to make you leave me once more. But it was necessary. It was necessary for my work. For my country. For my people. So I arranged for the guards in advance, not trusting myself. Does that make you hate me, you ugly man?"

Ford wanted to stir, to hold her, but he just lay there feeling the words. How could he hate her now for what he had already guessed?

"There is more you should know. I should tell you about the book. You brought it to me once, and I feel that someday you will return it to my people again. You understand my meaning; I'm sure that you understand. The book was stolen not long after I had finished translating it. It was taken by a man who cared only for the power it would give him. He wanted it as an artifact, a thing to show the people and help unite them in his drive for power. My people revere such artifacts and would attach great importance to the person who possessed it. But this man was a devil and I'm glad that you had a hand in killing him." Avoiding the general's name, but speaking of him with disgust while, in Ford's mind, the image of Zacul's face, those insane eyes, flashed for a moment, then faded as Pilar continued to talk.

"The book was a disappointment to me, Ford. It held no answers, it told very few secrets. But in ways—strange ways, ways that you would laugh at—it predicted the future of my people. It is because of the book that I knew so clearly what I must do. Other things became necessary. Some good things, some terrible. I arranged for my own husband's death. I murdered him. I am a murderess. I confess to you what I can confess to no priest because you, as no one I have ever met, are like me. You are a rational person and you know all the pain that that implies; all the loneliness. I killed him for the greater good, but I still feel the guilt, Ford. I wish you could talk to me and make me feel better. I wish we could talk as we did those nights on the beach. Did you know that the first time we sat talking was the first time since childhood that the loneliness in me disappeared? It was as if I had been waiting for you—you, a great ugly gringo older than me. Who knows why such things happen? But I could feel your words in my soul."

Then she lay silent for a long time, holding him. Ford could feel her soft breast on his arm; the thudding of her heart moved through him. His mind began to drift as he tried to focus on the expanse of light again, and he would have thought she had disappeared were it not for her steady heartbeat. Then she said, "There is something else I would like to tell you, Ford. But I can't because my life isn't my own. Do you know what makes me angry? My life has never been my own." She stood and leaned over him and Ford felt her lips on his. "I love you, Ford. I will always love you. ..."

Then the dream was gone.

So why were there angels singing?

Dis manibus sacrum, ad astra per aspera ...

Singing in Latin, their voices blended and wind-soft.

Cras cimet qui nunquam amavit quique amavit eras amet . . .

Ford could feel the resonance of the chant seeping up through the floor, through the walls, surrounding him like a veil or the spirit of life itself.

Then he was sitting up, blinking his eyes. Before him was the oblong form which had once burned with light. It was a window, gray with the dusk beyond. The crown of a palm tree drifted into view, then drifted away again, rocking in the wind. Thus he knew that he was on the second floor. He knew that he was alive. But he could still hear the haunting cadence of the Latin chant.

Adeste, fideles, laeti triumpliantes . . .

He was in a small room of wood and stone. The walls were whitewashed but not decorated. There was a dresser with a ceramic water basin and a silver crucifix. He lay in a simple bed with wooden footposts and beside the bed was a door. The door was open and the sound of women's voices came floating through.

Ford's brain scanned for an explanation, trying to figure out where he was, why he was here. Then he remembered Zacul and the explosion, and he decided that he must have been injured. In a slight panic, he took inventory of his limbs. His arms, his legs were in place, but his head hurt. He touched his head and found that it was wrapped with gauze. But there was only one small tender spot, toward the back, where the bandage was heaviest, and that was a relief. He tried to swing his legs off the bed but felt a sudden thrust of pain in his groin. Momentarily frightened, he threw back the sheet and looked beneath the long white nightshirt he wore. A catheter tube had been inserted into him. It was an unattractive thing to see, his member shriveled as if trying to hide while ingesting this sterile plastic tube, but there was no apparent injury. There were scissors on the table beside the bed, and Ford snipped the Y-prong. While water drained from it, he took a deep breath and pulled the tube out.

"Ye-ouch." Swearing softly and already feeling better for the sound of his own voice.

Ford got to his feet slightly dizzy but strong enough. He followed the walls down the hall, the stone floor cold on his feet. When the singing grew louder, he knelt and looked through the stone portals that promoted air circulation, common in the old buildings of Central America. In the room below was a domed circular chamber designed in the old days for acoustical effect. There were nuns in the room, their heads bowed, hands folded. They wore white habits and veils, walking slowly and in step around the perimeter of the room as they chanted.

He was in a convent. But it wasn't cloister La Conceptión, the convent outside the Presidential Palace in Masagua City. He had never been here before; he recognized nothing outside the window. He padded quietly back to the room trying to figure out what he should do. Where was Tomlinson? Where was little Jake? There was no closet in his room and he got down on his knees hoping his clothes might be under the bed. They weren't. As he got to his feet he bumped into the nightstand. Something tumbled off and crashed on the floor: a ceramic water pitcher. Ford stayed there for a moment, his buns hanging out in the coolness, then got quickly into bed.

A door opened somewhere and he could hear footsteps: leather shoes and heavy feet. Ford waited. What could he do—throw his catheter bag at the guy? A circle of light preceded the footsteps and then a man came into the room carrying an oil lamp. Ford pretended to be asleep, watching through cracked eyes. The man came closer, peering at him, and then Ford sat up abruptly. "Rivera!"

General Juan Rivera took two quick steps backward, touching his hand to his heart. "You would scare the life out of me, you crazy person!" But then he was smiling, the sudden anger gone. "Marion, you bad man, you are awake!"

"Sure I'm awake. I don't have any clothes. Get me my clothes, Juan."

Rivera put the lamp on the table, stepped over the broken pitcher, and took Ford by the shoulders. "You have been asleep for so long that I began to worry you would never awaken. It presented certain difficulties. How can one properly bury a man who is still breathing? How could I get the Dodgers of Los Angeles to take notice of the greatest pitcher in Central America?" The big man was shaking Ford gently, laughing.

"Where are we?"

"In a convent above thirty kilometers from Tambor."

"How long, Juan? How long have I been out?"

"Um, three days . . . no, this is the fourth. Your friend the great DiMaggio pulled you out of the water. You were unconscious and had a small cut on the head—such a small cut to knock out a man of your size! My men captured you and wanted to kill you. Who can blame them? A gringo that looks like you. But then one of them recognized you as the great Johnny Bench. I give them strict orders not to shoot players of quality." He shrugged his shoulders humorously. "You were lucky that it was my best team I sent on the assault. They are all students of the game and so remembered you."

"Your men? But you said you wouldn't help."

Rivera said softly, "Do I need a gringo to tell me how to run my army? I had been planning the attack on Zacul long before you came to my camp."

"You didn't tell me that."

"Should I share such a secret with a capitalist dog like yourself? I did not become a general by doing stupid things."

Ford sat back in the bed, touching his hand to his head. Rivera said, "You are still weak. You will need sleep. And food. I will bring you something, but I warn you that these nuns eat the food of birds."

"Where's Tomlinson? I need to talk to him. He had a young boy with him—"

"They have both returned to the United States. The doctor who tended you said the boy was sick and that he should go home. The boy wanted very badly to go home. So the great

DiMaggio went with him, but he said he would return if you did not get better."

"Then I need to call him—"

"I will have my men get word to him when they go to town. There's no phone here. Now you need food and rest."

Ford sat up once more, remembering something. "Pilar was here, Juan. She talked to me. I'd like to see her. Can you tell her that I'm awake?"

Rivera had picked up the lamp, and now he looked uncomfortable. "That would be difficult to do."

"Why? Did she already leave?"

Rivera looked at the flame in the lamp, not at Ford. "In a way she has left. Pilar Balserio is dead."

Ford stayed in the convent another night and another day, and then the doctor came—a small, bald man with a mustache—and said he would have to rest for at least one more night before starting the long trip home. Ford protested; Rivera insisted, and without Rivera's help there would be no leaving. So he stayed. The nuns nursed him. They brought him books and food, and he was never so anxious to leave a place in his life. The one thing he did enjoy was the chanting. He would sneak out and watch the nuns through the portal; watch them march solemnly around the domed chamber with its tiny penance cells where the nuns, by choice, could go to suffer alone on the cold rock floors or by tying themselves with the penance ropes that hung suspended from the ceiling.

Sometimes Rivera came to talk. Yes, Zacul was dead. They had found his body floating. The men had crossed themselves when they pulled his body from the water, so terrible was the expression of horror on his white face. The sharks had not bitten him, though. Even so, the mountain people were already saying that the sharks had taken him; that one more evil man had died from the bite of El Dictamen. Rivera said he was certain that someday the story would be told as truth throughout the mountains of Masagua.

Zacul's men had bolted, Rivera said, though some had already returned to join the Masaguan People's Army. Zacul's officers had been taken prisoner, though four had been found dead of some strange illness—wagging his eyebrows at this, for Tomlinson had already told him about the poison. With his own army now stronger, with Zacul's guerrillas scattered leaderless around the country, and with the government forces in Masagua City already fighting among themselves, Rivera's destiny seemed clear.

But he would not answer Ford's questions about Pilar Balserio. Once he came close.

"She's not dead, Juan. That was no dream I had. She was here."

"Always it's the same thing with you. Eat your nasty soup."

"I heard her. She talked to me."

"With a woman of her spirit, all things are possible. But the Pilar you knew is dead. It was a ghost. A holy vision from the gods."

"It wasn't a ghost, damn it!"

"Don't use such language when you speak of Ixku!" Flaring at him, really angry.

"Ixku? Who in the hell—"

"Yes Ixku! Would I agree to forgo my rightful presidency for anyone less?"

And that was all he would say.

Ford left on a Saturday, one week after the battle at Zacul's camp. Rivera brought him his clothes and made a request; a favor, though he insisted that Ford would be repaid. Ford agreed and said payment was not necessary. Rivera said it had already been done and left. That seemed rather cryptic until Ford put on his pants. The emeralds he had picked up that night on the dock were still in his pockets. Seven of them.

Three of Rivera's men took him to Utatlan where there, amazingly, was the Land Cruiser—not even a gas cap missing.

He flew LACSA out of San Jose on Sunday, had a long layover in Miami, then flew Air Florida to Fort Myers.

It was 11 P.M. when the cab dropped him at Dinkin's Bay Marina. The island air was moist, like a warm veil, and the moon was three days past full, tumid with light.

Ford could smell jasmine as he walked down the dock to his stilt house.

TWENTY-TWO

His sharks were gone. Ford could see that even before he got the door open to turn on the lights. The water within the shark pen was cobalt in the moonglow and still. Dead water and Ashless.

He popped the lock and stepped into the stale air of a house that hadn't been inhabited for nearly two weeks. There were several handwritten notes on the table but no mail. MacKinley had been keeping his mail at the marina. Ford put his bag on the floor, hit the outside lights, then walked down the steps to the fish tank. The fish stirred in the glare of the overhead bulb; the eyes of the shrimp glowed.

Two of his squid were gone and one of them floated, partially decomposed, in the ripple of the water jets.

Not a happy homecoming.

Ford stood on the lower porch looking at the bay. At the marina, the lights of the boats shimmered on the water, but it was quiet; a quiet Sunday night. Tomlinson's mast light was on, but the windows of his sailboat were dark, and that meant he wasn't aboard. Far out on the point, Jessica McClure's porch light was on; she was also away.

Ford went to the shark pen and confirmed that the bull sharks were gone. There was a great dent in the fencing, as if someone had purposely trampled it. Why would someone do that? Disgusted, he went inside and took a quart of cold beer from the little refrigerator. It was the first beer he'd had in nine days, and he drank from the bottle as he read the messages on the table.

Two were from Tomlinson.

The first note said that he'd noticed the dead squid and had Ford ever tested for electrolysis? Maybe that was the problem. He'd taken the liberty of testing the water with a meter and got a small reading—he hoped Ford wouldn't mind. So maybe if he added some lead plates to the ground cable, it might help.

Ford almost smiled. Electrolysis, sure, that could be the problem. He'd never built an aquarium this close to a modern marina before, and with all that electricity going into the water his ground line would be drawing it right into the tank. Adding lead to the cable would stop the migration of ions. The second note read:

Doc, in case you get back before I do, I'm taking Jake to Harvey Hollins's in West Virginia. He says he could fly alone, but I think I'd better stick with him. That bitch he has for a mother shouldn't have been the one to tell him about his father's death. If I'd known what she was like, I'd have told him myself. She blamed Jake for running off with his father and for his father killing himself, which I guess was her excuse for not wanting him anymore. I'm not going to let Jake fly up there alone, not after what he's been through.

There was a message from Jeth Nicholes, so nervously written and apologetic that the block letters almost seemed to stutter. Some kids or someone had busted down the shark pen and maybe got into the house through the window, but they didn't seem to take anything or leave any mess, but Jeth would pay for it if something was missing, only he didn't know how much sharks cost, but that's how bad he felt about it.

There were a couple of other notes from MacKinley. One said he had an important package sent registered mail, but he'd have to sign for it at the post office. Another said a man had called from D.C. and left an urgent message. It didn't say who, but Ford knew. The message was: "The antique salesman jumped bail. Whereabouts unknown." The package, like the phone message, could only be from Donald Piao Cheng. The Kin Qux Cho was at the post office waiting for him.

Ford got to his feet and walked through the roofed passageway and unlocked the door of his lab. It looked just the way he had left it, nice and neat, with microscopes under their covers and stainless-steel tables glistening. He went to the shelves of marine specimens and began to inspect the jars of small sharks and shark embryos. He took one of the jars from the shelf. The lid didn't seem to be screwed as tightly as he normally left lids, and there seemed to be more preservative in the jar than there should have been—an odd combination considering evaporation.

Ford put the jar back on the shelf and dialed Major Les Durell's home number. Durell's wife answered, sounding sleepy. Ford identified himself and said it was important. Durell came on a few moments later, sounding even sleepier, and said without preamble, "You don't follow directions very well, do you, boy?"

Ford, taken aback, said he didn't know about any directions.

"Like you didn't get my letter, huh? Like the mail between Fort Myers and Sanibel's that bad. You're not very good at playing innocent."

"I've been out of the country for two weeks, Les. I just got back. I haven't even seen my mail. "

"Oh. No kidding? Jesus, what time is it?" He made a grunting noise as if trying to clear his head, or maybe pulling a chair out to sit. "Well, it was in the letter. It was an official letter. I told you not to contact me again unless it was through your attorney. I told you we'd be seating a grand jury in a couple of weeks to look into that matter we discussed, and that any further testimony you wanted to deliver would have to be through the grand jury system."

"About Rafe's murder, you mean?"

"No, Sealife Corporation. The governor's office sealed their records on Wednesday. Really took the bastards by surprise and got everything. I mean everything. Some of the assistant D.A.'s have been going through the stuff and they already have enough to put half the city officials behind bars and keep the other half in tax court for the next ten years. That includes that scuzzball Mario DeArmand. That bastard's going to jail, even if the feds don't come up with gun-smuggling charges. "

Ford said, "They will," trying not to sound as pleased as he felt. Then: "What about Rafe?"

"What about him? If it makes you feel any better, that newspaper jackal Melinski has raked up enough muck on Hollins's ex-wife to get her and Judge what's-his-name run out of the city—if there's any city left when the grand jury gets through. He got some interesting stuff on when Hollins worked for Sealife, too, back when they were just starting to develop Sandy Key. They had a hell of a mosquito problem and they hired Rafe to fly their spray chopper. They had him spraying some kind of poison—quig-something-tox, I forget the name. "

"Queleatox?" Ford said.

"Yeah, that's it. How did you know?"

Ford was thinking that if they had been spraying queleatox in the area, maybe his squid weren't dying from electrolysis after all. In Africa, queleatox was used to exterminate weaver birds; massive fish kills always followed for a long, long time afterward. Ford said, "Just an unlucky guess."

"Anyway, this poison was death on mosquitoes, but it was death on birds and fish, everything else, too, plus it was cumulative. It never went away. According to Melinski, Rafe found out what he was spraying, raised a fuss, and got himself fired. So you can bet the city fathers were more than happy to get rid of him nice and quiet and fast enough so reporters wouldn't get the idea of poking around into his background."

"He was murdered, Les, and he's got a nice little boy who's going to grow up thinking his father committed suicide and left him in a place you can't even imagine."

"Now you're starting to sound like Melinski. I'll bet you anything his story's going to make it all sound like my fault. That vulture has had me working day and night, looking over my shoulder, second-guessing me. What gives him the right? The shithead. I don't mind when reporters act like they've been elected. It's when they start pretending they've been ordained that I really get pissed off." Durell paused, catching himself before he got madder. "Why did you call me?"

"My house was broken into. I wanted to tell you—"

"Doc, I don't know how you got the idea I'm your own private police force, but get it out of your head. Like my letter says, we shouldn't talk anymore."

"But I think the person who broke in was—"

"If it's an emergency, the number is nine one one. If it's not, look it up in the book. " And hung up.

Ford considered calling Don Cheng in D.C., but when he glanced out the window he noticed that Jessica's porch light was no longer on.

He locked the lab.

He would call Cheng in the morning.

He almost took his skiff, but that would be noisy. So he walked his bike down the dock and pedaled out to Periwinkle, Sanibel's main street. He rode the bikepath east past the restaurants and small boutiques. Coconut Grove, Mc T's, and the rest, then took Dixie Beach Road north to the water's edge where the road became shell, following the cusp of the peninsula to the mouth of Dinkin's Bay.

Jessica's house sat in the shadows of casuarina trees, its tin roof white beneath the summer moon. There were lights downstairs and he could hear music playing, saxophone and piano— public radio doing jazz. Ford leaned his bike against a tree. There was only one car in the drive, Jessica s car, and he touched the hood as he passed. It was cool. She had either been out walking, which seemed unlikely, or someone had dropped her off and left, or . . . there was another possibility. Staying in the shadows, he walked around the house to the dock. Her boat was still tied, shifting uneasily in the tidal flow. There were empty water jugs on the deck and something brown rolled into a bundle like a sleeping bag. He reached out and touched the small outboard engine. It was still warm.

Ford walked up the sand pathway to the porch but then he hesitated just before rapping on the door.

What was that noise?

The windows were open, and, through the screens, he could hear the music and he could hear the creak of the ceiling fans, but there was something else, too: a familiar low moan and the slap of belly skin against thigh.

The noise sensitized the hair on his neck even before he realized what it was, and Ford found himself being drawn inexorably to the expanse of living-room window. The television was on and the room was aglow with mercurial light—a music video station, so it wasn't public radio after all. The television's glare threw long shadows and, on the screen, two black musicians sweated over their saxophones. Ford watched the musicians for a time because he found it difficult to look at Jessica.

Jessica McClure was on the couch with her back to Ford. She sat astride some man who lay with his feet aimed at the window, a faceless creature who was all legs and long arms. Her head was cast back, auburn hair in a sheet over her buttocks, and she massaged her own breasts while pivoting on the man; lifting, sliding, then ingurgitating him with all the precision of a German clock. Every time she lifted, Ford could see the underside of her like an anatomy lesson.

He stood watching for a moment, detached, feeling no emotion stronger than disappointment, then turned and walked quietly back to the dock. He sat on the dock listening to the smack-thump of mullet jumping, swatting at mosquitoes. There were several big whelk shells in the sand, shells Jessica had collected and left to bleach in the sun. Ford picked up one of the shells, shook the sand out, and fitted his hand through the aperture, gripping the spire so that it was like a boxing glove. After about fifteen minutes, he saw silhouettes against the window, then heard the toilet flush. Ford leaned over the boat and yanked on the rope, starting the engine. Then he grabbed the whelk shell and knelt beside the low hedge of mangroves by the dock.

He heard their voices above the music, a quizzical garble, then the screen door slammed and the man came running out. Ford waited until the man was about to leap onto the dock, then swung out of the bushes and hit him in the face with the whelk shell. He mistimed the punch and the shell glanced off the man's cheek, but he still went down as if he had been shot. Then Ford stepped over the man expecting to see Benjamin Rouchard, the New York art dealer who had jumped bail. Instead, he saw Rafe Hollins.

Ford stood numbly as if in a dream, unable to speak, unable to move; stood wondering if maybe he wasn't having a hallucination from the concussion. But it was Rafe, all right, lying there blinking up at him, wearing only a T-shirt and Jockey shorts, holding his cheek, which was bleeding. Hollins began to slide away from him, backward in the sand, then slowly got to his feet. He said, "Is that any way to greet an old friend, Doc?" Then: "How in the hell did you find me?"

Ford was breathing heavily, still staring. He dropped the whelk shell, grabbed Hollins's T-shirt in both fists, and ran him backward into the mangroves, holding him against the limbs and yelling: "You son of a bitch, your little boy was dying down there. They had him living like an animal! I almost got killed getting him out.'

Hollins wrapped his hands around Ford's arms, not fighting him but shaking him, as if trying to shake information out. "You mean you have him? Jake's alive?"

"As if you care."

"Is he okay?"

"Yes!"

"You've got to tell me where he is! I've got to go see him."

Ford smacked Hollins's hands away. "Real convincing. But then you always were good at tricks." And he hit Hollins in the face again. Hollins fell back into the mangroves, tried to catch his balance, but the limbs sprung him out into the sand.

Another voice said, "Go ahead, Ford. Go ahead and beat him to death." Jessica was walking toward them, barefooted, a robe pulled tight around her neck, and speaking softly in a husky alto voice that sounded cold, cold. "Make everything nice and neat, just the way you like it. Your dead friend isn't dead, so go ahead and solve the problem—eliminate the data that doesn't fit. Kill him."

Ford pointed his finger at her. "Why don't you run along and take a shower? You look a little dirty tonight."

"There! Now you've put me in my place. You're doing marvelously, Ford. Actually showing some emotion." She stepped onto the boat and shut off the engine. In the sudden silence she said, "I knew you had a heart banging around someplace in that big chest of yours. "

Hollins was sitting up groggily, snorting blood into the sand, trying to breathe. "Don't hit me again, Doc. I mean it. If you hit me again I'm gonna have to fight back. "

Ford said, "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I don't want to fight you, but lay off, damn it."

"Jake was down there sleeping in his own crap. He's got open sores all over his legs. They had him chained to a wall. And your buddy Zacul came this close to getting his hands on him."

Hollins lowered his head, shaking it. "Ah, Christ." A low agonized wail.

"Why don't you give him a chance, Ford? Or maybe it's

more than just the boy. Maybe you did some window peeking and just didn't enjoy the show."

Ford snapped, "Why would an old pro like you care?" throwing the words at her—and was surprised to see her face register pain.

She turned her back to him. "Sometimes you're just so damn unfair."

Ford stared at the woman, then released a long breath. He said to her, "Go inside and get some ice. A washcloth, too. He's bleeding pretty bad," as he took Hollins's arm, helped him to his feet, and steered him toward the porch steps.

Hollins said, "I broke into your house."

"I know."

"I just wanted to tell you that right off the bat. "

"Something honest for a change. There were grown men crying at your funeral, you asshole."

TWENTY-THREE

Hollins sat on the steps and the wood creaked beneath his weight. Jessica brought the washcloth out and he leaned his face against it, flinching at the cold. He said, "I needed money, Doc. I figured I needed ten or twelve grand to get Jake out, to make all the bribes and get the right papers—all that stuff. I couldn't ask you for that much, plus I thought I had a couple of other ways to get it. I'd been smuggling in Mayan artifacts and this art dealer, Ben Rouchard, was auctioning them off in New York—

"I know all about that."

"You do?"

Ford looked at Jessica. "Yeah; almost all of it."

"Well ..." Hollins was thinking, trying to put the rest of the story together. He said, "The other way I came up with getting quick cash was to offer the corporation that developed Sandy Key a deal. I used to work for those bastards, and I had some information that could cost them a couple of million in fines if the Environmental Regulation people found out. "

"About them putting illegal insecticide in your helicopter."

"Jesus, you know about that, too?"

"I'm surprised they didn't kill you when you tried to blackmail them. There's no statute of limitations on environmental offenses."

"That's the point. They tried. My old boss was a guy named DeArmand, so I called him and offered him the deal. I said if he brought me twenty grand in cash, I'd sign a paper they could postdate saying that I understood that I'd been fired for spraying illegal chemicals and accepted all responsibility, like the poison was my idea. Like a confession. DeArmand's the sheriff there now, and he threatened to have me put away for that kidnapping charge, the thing with Jake. I said fine, I'd go to prison but he would, too, plus the corporation would go bankrupt paying the DER fines. So DeArmand agreed to meet me on the Tequesta Bank, just him alone with the money.

"He was supposed to be there in the morning, the day before you came. I watched him coming across the flats in a small boat, kicking up mud the whole way because he didn't know the cuts. But, when he lands, I see it isn't DeArmand at all. It's this big guy about my size and I know he's some professional DeArmand has brought in to kill me. But I didn't give him a chance, Doc. We got up there on the mound and I hit him with a club the first chance I got. He went down and I couldn't believe it—he was dead. That quick; just stopped breathing.

"I panicked. I was already wanted for kidnapping and now they d get me for murder, too, and I'd never see Jake again. You know how upset I was when I talked to you on the phone that morning but, when that guy stopped breathing, I just went crazy. At first, I was going to run. Just get the hell out of there.

But the idea of being wanted for murder was about the worst thing I'd ever felt, Doc. I'm not kidding. It made me want to run around in circles and bang into trees. Like some kind of animal being hunted. I wanted to vomit. So I got the idea of trying to make it look like an accident. I drug that guy's body all over the place, trying to make it look like he'd fallen or hit his head on a rock or something. But it just didn't work. Shit, there's noplace to fall on that island and no rocks to hit—it's all shell.

"Then I got the idea of making it look like he'd killed himself. That seemed like the best idea. Even if I ended up in court, there were no witnesses and the jury would have to go by what the cops found. So I got a rope, and you know what I did with that. The dead guy looked like he'd come straight from the big city, so I tied bad knots like he'd probably tie and did a bunch of other stuff, trying to make it just right. But then it crossed my mind they'd do an autopsy and find out the guy had died from getting hit in the head and that just ruined everything. Right back to square one. I was about ready to cry by that time.

"So I left the guy hanging up there; took the boat and just went. God, I've never spent a night like that in my life. I holed up in a tidal creek under the mangroves, expecting police choppers to start buzzing me any minute. It was like I was crazy. I couldn't stop . . . stop crying. I spent all night in that boat, trying to figure out what to do, and it seemed like the best thing was to just hide the body and try to pretend like it never happened. By the time I got back to the island, though, the vultures had already been at this guy and his face was about gone. That's when it hit me. All my problems solved at once. They don't hunt a guy for kidnap and murder if he's already dead. The guy was about my size, had my hair, but wore clothes like I'd never wear. I swear to God, that was the worst part. Changing clothes with that corpse. It still gives me the shivers."

Ford said, "You told DeArmand if he'd push the body past the coroner, you'd give him a confession about the insecticide?

"Right. That was the risk. Turned out, it wasn't much of a risk. I snuck over to the mainland that night and got DeArmand alone. He didn't give a damn about the guy I'd killed—he was just some Marielito from Miami, a professional killer. But the twenty grand would have come out of DeArmand's pocket. So that was the deal. I signed the paper and DeArmand would see to it this guy went to the grave as me, no questions asked. No money, but I got my freedom. And I'd planned on living with Jake in Costa Rica anyway."

Hollins cleared his throat uncomfortably and added, "I wanted to stay on the island and wait for you, Doc. I almost did. But I was still panicky and you always were kind of a stickler for the law. I figured I'd just head down to Masagua alone and try to get Jake out by myself, but when I got back to the island the emeralds were gone. Shit, I had no money and no emeralds— nothing to trade. I woulda called you that night, but I knew the marina was closed. Then I figured the best thing to do was just sneak in and see you in person. But, by then, it was Tuesday night and you were already gone."

Ford said, "Zacul didn't want the emeralds. He wanted the book you stole."

Hollins sat up. "He wanted the what?"

Ford did not repeat himself; just stood looking at the man, watching it sink in.

Hollins said, "Christ, I gave that to Rouchard to auction off. I didn't think it was worth more than a couple hundred bucks. You're serious? And I thought it was the damn emeralds! That's why I broke into your house. They didn't mean money to me, they meant getting my little boy back. And I was beginning to think you were dead."

Ford looked at Jessica. She was leaning against the screen door, one hip thrown out, her copper hair hanging over the left side of her face. He said, "And you're the woman I could tell everything."

She made an open-handed gesture, as if pleading guilty. "Nice little trap, Ford. But don't you get a little nervous setting traps for people who love you? I mean, you're the one who gets hurt if the traps work."

Hollins reacted to that, glaring at Jessica. "Hey, wait a ininute—you just told me you two were friends." He turned to Ford. "I swear to God, this girl didn't tell me that you and she were—"

"We're not." Ford was standing up, finding it hard to look at either one of them. "Rafe, you come over to my place in the morning and we'll talk about your son."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I can't just come out in broad daylight. I've been camping over on Chino Island so no one would see me. Jessica's been bringing me food and stuff until you got back. About her and me, I had no damn idea that you two were . . . and I hardly even knew her until about four days ago when Rouchard said—" He was stammering over a tough subject and making it tougher, so Jessica finished, "When Benny told him that any friend of his gets anything he wants from Jessica McClure. Right, Hollins?"

Rafe groaned. "Doc, I feel like a real shit about this. After all you've done for me. "

Ford was already walking away. "Stop by in the morning, Rafe. You don't have to hide anymore. They couldn't prove you were murdered; they can't prove the Marielito was murdered. All the evidence is gone."

"But I'm supposed to be dead."

"You were out of the country with your son and returned to discover a terrible injustice had been done. You are shocked some stranger was mistaken for you."

"I left that stupid note—"

"I have the note, and I've already forgotten about it."

"And my wallet was on him."

"You mean the wallet was stolen? The Marielito died with a guilty conscience."

"But DeArmand knows—"

"DeArmand has his own problems to worry about. So does your ex-wife."

"They'll get me for kidnapping. "

Ford stopped and turned toward him. "Right—and gun running. You're going to have to face up to that anyway. Good fathers don't keep their kids hiding from the law, Rafe. And you're going to be a good father. A very damn good father. Or I'll unravel your story like a cheap sweater and make sure you lose the boy."

Hollins's head was down and he said softly, "I guess I have that coming. Maybe I do. But Doc—" He looked at Ford, a steely look. "—don't ever threaten to take Jake away from me again."

Ford said, "You keep your part of the bargain and I won't."

Ford could hear Jessica's footsteps in the sand; could feel her following him through the disc of porch light to his bike. He turned and she came closer to him, still holding the robe with one hand, but holding something else in the other. She said, "You might as well take this with you"—handing him a framed canvas—"since you probably won't be coming by again." Not sounding cold now, just weary.

Ford held the canvas out to the light and saw that she had finished the painting: a man with glasses and a firm expression wading the brass flats. It was Ford's face, but she had idealized it; softened the rough features and added virtues he had never seen in the mirror.

She said, "That's the way I see you." And they both looked at the painting in a growing silence, then Jessica said in a rush, "Doc, Rouchard has videos of me."

"Oh?"

"You don't want to hear it, do you?"

"I thought it might be something like that."

"I'm just trying to tell you why you saw what you saw—"

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"No, but you owe me the chance to offer, damn it." She was angry and close to tears, too. "That time in Greenwich Village, with the drugs and all. Well, it was a little bit worse than I told you. No, it was a lot worse. The drugs, mostly. Then I went to work for the marketing company in New York—"

"Seaboard Marketing. Unlimited."

She turned away from him, her hair swinging. "I don't even know why I bother. I should have known you'd already checked out every little detail. God, I feel like a fool."

Ford touched her shoulder and she pivoted slowly, not looking at him now. "You went to work for the company."

"Yes. I started to get my life straightened out a little. But I still had the drug problem. So Ben helped me out by supplying, but then he wanted me to help him, too. It didn't seem like I had much choice, that's how bad my problem was. So I began to do favors for him. Then he wanted me to do favors for his important clients when they came to the city. He didn't know it but he was giving me all the motivation I needed for getting off the drugs for good. By then he had the videos. I didn't even know he'd taken them."

"Nice guy, Ben."

"He's leaving the country Tuesday and I'll never have to do another thing for that man. He got busted last week and I'm helping him get out. I'll get the cassettes back in exchange."

"And Rafe is one of Ben's suppliers. "

"I don't ask. He must have something on Ben, I don't know. I just do what they want, like taking medicine." She pressed her hands to his chest, not holding him away, but as if to make sure he stood and listened. "After Tuesday, it'll all be over, Doc. That whole damn segment of my life. Like it never happened. In a way, it didn't happen. Not to this me. The Jessica McClure you knew here in this house—that's who I am. It's who I would have been. Do you know how seriously the art critics would treat a coke whore? People don't just buy the painting. They buy the artist. I told you that once before."

Ford stood watching her, saying nothing as she let her hands slide to her sides.

She said, "Bad things happen to people, Ford. Bad random things that scar and humiliate. If you make one wrong choice make one mistake, you can go from running your life to wanting to run from it. Like your friend Rafe Hollins. That painting you're holding was done by a person who never knew Ben Rouchard. It was done by a person who hadn't been scarred and was too strong to run. Take a close look at the face, Ford. It looks like you, but it's the way I should have been."

Ford said, "I like the woman I see in front of me just fine. I always have."

She slid her arm under his, wanting him to hug her. "I don't want to lose you, Ford, just because you stumbled onto a part of my life that is already over."

Ford almost said, "Jessica, you never had me." Instead, he kissed her on top of the head and rode away.

TWENTY-FOUR

On June 22, one day after the summer solstice, Ford was standing at the stove cooking when he heard a skiff outside, puttering toward his dock. He was expecting company and he stopped cutting onions long enough to glance out the window. It was Tomlinson—not the person he was expecting. He opened the little refrigerator and used his fingers to squeegee ice off two bottles of beer, then opened them both.

"Clare de Lune" was coming out of the Boise speakers, just getting to the nice harp part, the part where the music slowed and sparkled.

Tomlinson came up the steps, opened the door without knocking, and plopped down into a chair. He was carrying a newspaper. "Pilar Santana Fuentes Balserio isn't dead," he said.

Ford had gone back to the stove and, without looking up, he said, "There's a beer on the desk for you."

"She presided at the Ceremony of Seven Moons yesterday. They invited the world press, like a coronation. They're calling it the bloodless revolution. Even the Miami Herald ran two . . . no, three pictures. I wonder why they didn't invite you—I mean, you sent Rivera the damn book back just like he asked."

Ford turned and said, "I've got a lady due to arrive in about fifteen minutes. I don't want to be rude, but she's not coming here to hear about current events. Then we're going up to Cabbage Key and dance. Rob Wells is having us to dinner."

"You're taking the news a little hard, aren't you?" Tomlinson was holding his bottle of beer, studying Ford's face.

"I'm cutting onions, you idiot."

"Oh yeah ... It says here that Masaguans have accepted Pilar as the incarnation of Ixku, the Mayan goddess. Far out, huh? Ixku was the mother of Quetzalcoatl, the blond sun god. Pure spiritualism, man, I love it! 'She had disavowed her former life—'" Tomlinson was reading now. "'—and dedicated herself to promoting the political and social well-being of her people. An estimated two hundred thousand Maya made the pilgrimage to bow before the woman who led them in a ceremony that had not been performed since the arrival of the Spaniards in the sixteenth century.'" Tomlinson rattled the paper. "Goddamn, that woman's smart. In those Central American countries, they assassinate dictators like most people eat popcorn. But they won't lay a finger on a religious leader, no way. She'll govern that country until she dies at a ripe old age. She's a genius, I'm telling you."

Ford said, "You don't have to tell me."

Tomlinson was reading again. '"As a Mayan priestess, she must forsake all earthly pleasures and bonds. Even to speak her former name is considered heresy.' I guess that means she can t get married. Yeah, I'm sure that's what that means. See, Doc? It wasn't that she didn't want to see you again. That ought to cheer you up."

"Have I needed cheering up?"

"Naw, I guess not. You've been pretty cheery."

They'd both been pretty cheery. After selling off the emeralds, they each had enough money in the bank to do the work they wanted to do for a long, long time. So would Jake Hollins when he turned eighteen and the trust funds started paying off. And Rafe and Harvey Hollins would have enough money right along if all the stipulations of the trusts were honored.

"They got some quotes in here from Juan Rivera. He's going to be the high Ixku's prime minister. Some of them are pretty funny. You want me to read them?"

Tomlinson read the quotes aloud, and by the time he was done they were both laughing. Tomlinson said, "I'm telling you, the guy's going to be a great prime minister. That idea about getting a major league franchise in Masagua was the best. 'Provide us such a bond with capitalism and we will never turn away.' Pure poetry and, when you think of it, he's absolutely right."

Ford had already thought of it. It was his idea.

Tomlinson said, "You want to see the pictures they took of the ceremony? I'll leave the paper. Hey, I better get going if you have a lady coming over. Plus you combed your hair and, judging from that clean shirt, probably even took a shower." At the door he said again, "I think you ought to take a look at those pictures, Doc."

As Tomlinson's boat started, Ford picked up the paper. He looked at the photographs, then put the paper down. He found his glasses and considered the photographs once more, studying them carefully, moving very slowly, as a man in a dream might move. He took a long breath, then another. Then he carried the paper outside, where he stood, hands clenched white on the railing, and stared down into the pen where the two big bull sharks Jeth Nicholes had caught cruised like dark sentinels. Their dull goat's eyes seemed to stare back at him.

Someone was calling his name ... a woman's voice.He turned to see Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards grinning at him, looking fresh and professional in her summer dress and white jacket, just in from Iowa at his invitation, and saying "Hey, sailor, you got room for one very tired lady?"

"Huh?"She came up the dock, gave him a big squeeze, then pulled the newspaper out of his hands playfully. "What's so important in here that you'd give your personal physical therapist such a dull greeting? Oh, I see now—some Latin beauty in a white robe. Nice picture; very nice." She folded the paper neatly and said, "But in case you didn't notice, that beautiful woman is holding a very fat, very healthy, little blond baby. She's obviously not available. But you know what?" She touched her fingertips to the slow, soft smile forming on Ford's face. "I am."