Danielle glanced in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know,” she said. “He seems to be in his own world. In some ways it reminds me of autism but I’m not sure. He didn’t exactly have a great start to life.”
The look on Danielle’s face was sadness, disappointment. They’d rescued Yuri from one prison but the future likely held another. Hawker understood it.
The rules were often blind to the facts and though he and Danielle could keep Yuri with them for the time being, and certainly would never return him to Kang, the diplomatic situation with Russia would be more difficult. Yuri was a Russian citizen, a ward of the state. And when the time came and the Russians demanded him back, legally there would be no way to stop them.
“Maybe we can keep him,” Hawker said, joking.
“He’s not a stray puppy,” she replied. “But we can’t send him back there.”
Hawker watched as Danielle returned to scanning the roadside and the signs. The drive had been a long one. Nine hours cross-country with only a canvas targa top to block the sun. Sweat, sand, and grime coated their bodies and the urge to stop, shower, and sleep had been hard to resist. But time was short and so they’d driven almost nonstop.
And yet Danielle looked great to him, as stunning as he remembered, in some ways even better. In Brazil, pressured by superiors to get an impossible job done under a daunting timeline, she’d been very official and intense. But here, driving the old jeep, wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a crumpled cowboy hat, with her skin tanning in the sun, she seemed more natural, more at peace.
“You know,” he said, “we could’ve found a car with air-conditioning.”
She laughed, an easy laugh. “We have the two-sixty air conditioner.”
“The two-sixty?”
“Yeah, two windows down, sixty miles an hour,” she said.
“Great,” Hawker said, wiping more sweat from his face. “I bet James Bond never had the two-sixty air conditioner. Maybe next time we could get an Aston Martin.”
“This suits you better,” she said. “Kind of reminds me of your helicopter.”
He laughed at that. “Yeah, it kind of does.”
The road had taken them to a small fishing village. On the shore, a group of long boats with colorful but fading paint lay motionless side by side. They looked like sea lions basking in the sun. Up ahead was a row of small buildings.
“This is it,” she said. “If McCarter’s still in Mexico, and he wants us to find him, he’ll be here.”
“How can you be sure?”
“When we came down here, we set up shop about fifty miles inland near a ruined Mayan city called Ek Balam, the Black Jaguar. But McCarter kept talking about wanting to come visit this place. I guess he and his wife spent a couple of months here,” Danielle said. “Working all day and making love all night. Never slept a wink, according to him.”
“Sounds nice,” Hawker said. “Except for the working part … and the lack of sleep.”
“Wow, you’re such a romantic.”
She pulled the jeep to the side of the road.
By an hour later they’d checked every motel in town. There were two smaller bed-and-breakfast places up the coast, but one man they’d asked had suggested the small apartment house a few blocks inland.
Danielle pulled up in front of it.
“My turn,” Hawker said. He hopped out and went to see what he could find.
“Moses Negro,” the front desk clerk said, after Hawker described who he was looking for. “Este es loco.”
Hawker remembered McCarter as calm and measured. It was hard to imagine him as “loco” or resembling Moses in any way.
The clerk pointed up the stairs. “Trece, nueve,” he said. Third floor, room nine.
Hawker climbed the rickety stairs and made his way down a short hall.
From the outside the building had looked pretty worn down, old red brick and peeling plaster, but inside it was well kept, though dated and a little cramped.
The hardwood floors beneath his feet were scratched and fading but had been swept immaculate. On a sofa table at the top of the stairs, a vinelike plant with deep green leaves and bright red flowers spilled out of its pot. Through a window he saw the courtyard; an old stone fountain bubbled in the center. Birds sat on its rim or chirped in the bougainvilleas that climbed trellises along the walls.
The place certainly had charm.
Hawker arrives outside room nine. He listened for a moment.
Nothing.
He knocked. “Professor McCarter?”
No answer. The clerk had not seen McCarter leave for the day, but that didn’t mean he was in. With a key he’d bought for a hundred dollars, Hawker opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was tidy but empty. The bed was made but the blanket that covered it was slightly askew. That seemed out of place with the attention to detail that marked everything else around. Hawker guessed someone had been sitting or lying on the top of the covers. A drawer by the nightstand was not quite closed.
Something felt wrong, though Hawker wasn’t sure what it was.
Movement caught his eye as the thin, gauzy drapes by the window wafted in the soft breeze. He stepped toward them and something heavy slammed into the back of his shoulders. He fell forward, stumbling to the window.
A pistol cocked behind his head.
“Who are you?!” a gruff voice shouted.
The voice was familiar. It sounded like McCarter.
Hawker began to turn around.
“Don’t!” the voice shouted. “Don’t you move!”
“I’m just trying to show you who I am,” Hawker said as calmly as he could. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Right,” the person behind him said. “Okay, right. Just do it slowly.”
And so Hawker turned as slowly as he possibly could.
His eyes locked on to McCarter, and he instantly understood why the clerk had considered him loco. The professor looked like a crazy man. Bushy beard, unkempt hair, eyes filled with more lines than a Pennsylvania road map.
“Remember me?” Hawker asked. “We had a hell of a time in Brazil together.”
McCarter’s face softened as if he recognized Hawker. But then he stiffened again. “Are you real?” he asked.
“Am I what?”
“Real,” McCarter repeated. “Are you real?”
Hawker wasn’t sure what to make of this. Perhaps there was more to the loco description than he’d thought.
“I am real,” Hawker said as calmly as he could. “Though I have to point out, if I wasn’t, I would probably lie to you and insist that I was real anyway.”
McCarter relaxed a bit more. He lowered the gun an inch. “Good point,” he admitted. “Perhaps this is not the best method of gauging reality.”
Hawker extended his hand and calmly directed the gun away from him. “Whatever you decide, I’d rather you didn’t shoot me to find out for sure.”
McCarter uncocked the hammer and tossed the gun on the small table beside him, then looked up at Hawker again. “It’s a cap gun,” he admitted sadly. “All I could get my hands on.”
“A cap gun.” Hawker had to laugh.
“It’s just …,” McCarter started saying. “Sometimes I see things … or hear things … and they’re not really there. And you don’t seem like someone I would run into … I mean … I wasn’t expecting …” He couldn’t find the words. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Hawker looked around, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to figure out how McCarter had surprised him.
“Apparently getting suckered by the old hide-behind-the-door trick.”
“Another reason I thought you weren’t real,” McCarter said quickly. “Who would fall for that?”
Hawker nodded. “I must be losing my touch.”
McCarter smiled. In his sudden moment of happiness he looked even crazier than before. A delirious, joyful madman.