Shark River

22

We buried the three of them in the sand behind the dune where Harrington had hidden his rubber inflatable boat. We used our entrenching tools and buried the dead men deep. We spoke little, said less. I wanted no words nor exchange of information to be associated with the memory of dragging corpses and shoveling sand onto them.

Compartmentalization-something I’m very good at. Harrington had to be pretty good at it, too, and for obvious reasons.

Then we had our own private little ceremony. I tossed driftwood on the fire until it blazed. Got a couple of beers off the ice. We had a good talk, an enlightening talk. Discussed things and events that we both knew we could never discuss again. Ever.

At one point, he said to me, “What I’m seriously considering doing is going back to my home state and running for political office. The way this nation’s going, we need to get involved and stay involved.”

I told him that I found the idea of any of us going into politics unlikely.

He said to me, “Are you kidding? You didn’t know? A few years back, one of us ran for a governorship and won. We’re already into politics.”

I said, “Him?” and then a name.

Harrington was nodding. “Exactly.”

I stood there and listened to him laugh as he told me that he thought a cell phone that played the theme from The Lone Ranger was a nice touch. He laughed some more when he told me how he’d set up Cordero, fed him information about me, where I was, where I’d be. Charged him top dollar, too, as an anonymous informant. Made him send cash money to a post office box in Cartagena, and Cordero had paid it gladly, excited to be getting such excellent and dependable intelligence.

Then Harrington and I exchanged files. From a plastic sack, from my skiff, I handed him a thick folder labeled OPERATION PHOENIX, and another with the words DIRECCION: BLANCA MANAGUA written on the cover in red felt-tip pen.

I watched him leaf through all those papers before dropping them into the fire.

I took the book-sized dossier on me, the only one in existence-according to Harrington, anyway-and tossed it into the fire. I watched the pages burn and curl, the ink producing colors different from those in the flames from the driftwood; colors not so bright or pure.

Then I said to him, “What about Tomlinson? We do have an agreement.”

From his backpack, Harrington handed me a sheaf of legal-size paper. Said, “This exonerates him. Just like you asked. It’s based on the actual investigative report on the bombing at Coronado, but I had a few things changed here and there. It lays the blame on an entirely different group. Not Tomlinson’s. According to this, he had absolutely nothing to do with it. Legally and officially.”

As I read through the documents, Harrington added, “But he is guilty, you know. He probably played more of a role than either one of us realizes. You’re the one who decided to let him live-why not let him live with the truth? Johnny Garvin was one of us, for Christ’s sake. He was a friend of yours.”

I neatened the papers with my hands before sliding them into my own backpack. I looked out at the Gulf: it was a little breezy but not bad. It’d be a nice run back to Everglades. “It was a long time ago and he’s suffered enough,” I told Harrington. “You keep forgetting something. Tomlinson’s my friend, too.”