The Butterfly Forest

NINETY-SEVEN

Dave’s cell rang. He mumbled a greeting, stood and stepped out to Gibraltar’s cockpit to talk with the caller. I studied the computer screen as the federal agents sent text messages, and made phone calls, their eyes shifting from the computer to the tiny screens in their hands.

Dave returned and took his seat in front of the computer.

“They’re going in,” said Agent Keyes, looking up from his iPhone.

“Stop them!” I said.

“Why?” asked Agent Keyes.

“Because your men are walking into a trap.”

“What? We have the warehouse surrounded. We can put five thousand rounds in that building in a matter of minutes.”

“What do you see, Sean?” Dave asked.

“A pattern.”

“Pattern?” Keyes asked.

“Yes.” On camera, I watched the federal agents begin their approach. One of the agents, I recognized. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Within a minute, I knew that Agent Flores would be one of the first to storm the warehouse. I said, “The movement of the tracker is going in a figure-eight pattern. It’s making a repeat loop.”

“Maybe they’re moving the body,” Keyes said, “probably getting ready to load it into that refrigerated truck for shipment to the port or airport.”

“Try railroad,” I said.

“What?” Keyes asked.

I pointed to the screen and said, “That’s a slow figure-eight pattern, like something you’d see with a model train. That old warehouse was used to store and ship bananas. Maybe some were imported from Colombia. Gonzales is orchestrating a bizarre and deadly game. ”

“What the fuck are you talking about O’Brien?” Keyes shouted.

Dave said, “Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the novelist. Sean sees more than a pattern in the movement of the tracker. We’ve profiled Pablo Gonzales, and we believe his psychosis is so delusional, Gonzales thinks he possesses some divine mandate to eliminate anyone who he believes repeats the sins of his or her forefathers.”

“Call back your agents,” I said.

Keyes said, “I’m going to need more than some half-baked profile to issue that directive.”

“Then you’ll see a lot of your agents die,” I said.

Jenkins squinted, staring at the screen. “I do see the tracker’s repeating its movement, maybe there’s something to this, Dan.”

Agent Keyes opened his cell and punched numbers. “Use extreme caution approaching the building. There’s reason to believe you could be walking into a trap.” He listened some more and shook his head. “No, proceed with the take down.”

“You’re making a mistake,” I said. “Toss in tear gas before you send in the troops.”

“I don’t recall you graduating from Quantico, O’Brien.’’

Dave said, “He went to tougher schools.”

I said nothing. The split-screen on Dave’s computer showed more than two dozen agents approaching the building from all corners. I watched as seven agents, including Agent Flores stood at an entrance door to the warehouse, pistols drawn, and dark bullet-proof vests riding on chests, FBI white letters on black T-shirts. Two of the agents held sub-machine guns.

“I’m putting them on speakerphone,” Agent Keyes said.

“We’re going in,” said the tinny voice of Agent Flores through the cell speaker.

Within seconds, all seven agents were in the warehouse. More stood at all exits. There was a long pause of white noise, as if the speaker phone was transmitting from the bottom of a cave. “Clear!” came distant shouts, and then Agent Flores was back on the line. “Place is vacant. You’re not going to believe this,” she said, amusement in her voice, “there’s a model train on tracks going from one end of the building to the other.”

I glanced down at Dave. He cocked an eyebrow and lifted his eyes up to Agent Keyes. Keyes spoke into the cell. “Then where’s the GPS tracker?”

“Somewhere on the train, I assume,” said Agent Flores. “Jake’s stopping the train to look in the caboose.”

“No!” I shouted.

“O’Brien, you’re a little over—”

“Get them out of there! Send in the bomb squad.”

“What’d he say?” asked Flores.

“Where’s Jake?” Agent Keyes asked.

“He just turned off the power to the damn train. Gary’s checking the cars on the track beginning with the caboo—”

His voice was gone. Flattened by the roar of the explosion. I stared at the computer monitor as the warehouse disappeared. The screen became a bright flash of white light before the cameras captured a massive ball of orange flames roaring up against the cloudless, blue sky.