Prax didn’t tell Reynaldo the whole deal. He’d never told anyone the entire truth. He just told him about the soldiers, and the hospital, and about how he’d dedicated his life to taking revenge for all the poor peasants.
Same old bullshit.
Just as he didn’t tell him he was going to double-cross that pompous asshole, Jorge Balserio. That he was going to steal the money and the kid, then split.
He had everything all set: A guy he’d bullied at the national library to do the Internet stuff for him, because he would need to have e-mails forwarded once he and the kid were in hiding. Plus, his own chartered plane, not Balserio’s. And a ship. An old freighter, but with an infirmary that was going to be very specially equipped once he got his hands on that money.
So he was tempted to tell the General’s little stooge that he was going to burn Balserio-but burn him in a different kind of way. It would’ve fed Lourdes’ ego to let an insider know that he was outsmarting the famous man.
But he didn’t. Didn’t say a word, even though he’d already decided that the driver would never get the chance to tell anyone.
FIVE
The olfactory memory has no linkage in time, so reading e-mail over Pilar’s shoulder, our bodies so close, her familiar odor reconnected us across years. I might, once again, have been with the woman whom I believed to be my love.
The temptation was to rest my hand on her shoulder. But she no longer invited that kind of familiarity.
She read the kidnapper’s e-mail aloud, first in Spanish, then made a quick translation into English for Tomlinson’s benefit, her voice animated:
“On Wednesday, May seventh, at two in the afternoon, be at the Cacique Restaurant on West Flagler near Northwest Miami Court. It’s across from the Dade County courthouse in downtown Miami. You’ll hear from us. Don’t bring the money. If you contact the police, if you’re followed, your brat dies. Answer this so we know you got it.”
The e-mail was unsigned, the subject line blank. It came from an Internet address that seemed to be a random series of letters and numbers: xyxq37.
Because she was a mother, though, and because it was the human thing to do, she’d opened Lake’s e-mail first-which is why it was so difficult to control the emotion in her voice as she read aloud.
His note-if he’d actually written it-was distressing: Mother, Do what they say. I want to come home. Please help me. I’m afraid. He says if you cooperate, he’ll let me write to you again.
That Lake switched in reference from “they” to “he,” I noted, was suggestive.
Seeing his e-mail name, Chamaeleo@Nicarado, at the bottom of the note produced an unexpected surge of emotion in me.
Chamaeleo.
It was an unusual name chosen by an unusual boy. It’d taken some thought. Chamaeleon is the genus of wise-cracking lizards once used in popular beer commercials. Kinda funny.
Over time, though, I learned the name had more complex meanings. Chamaeleon is also the genus of certain sea iguanas similar to those found in the Galapagos Islands. Charles Darwin drew important inferences from the iguanas while aboard the HMS Beagle touring South America, making notes that led to his theory of natural selection.
Lake had finally told me that.
Impressive.
I’d added my own third interpretation: Chameleons adapt and change appearance fast-something that would appeal to a boy his age.
I think most parents come to learn what I was slow to realize: It is the unwise adult who assumes that youth automatically equates to an absence of depth and wisdom. Children are complicated.
Reading over Pilar’s shoulder, smelling the good odor of hair and skin, I said, “They want you to respond. What are you going to say?”
“I’ll write that I’m going to do exactly what they tell me to do. I don’t want them to hurt Laken. What do you expect?”
“I think you should add something like… well, that you aren’t cooperating with authorities, but you are bringing a male friend to Miami. Because I’m going with you. Big cities can be dangerous. Write something like that. Even if you aren’t carrying the money, you need protection. Say there’re no cops involved, but you have to watch out for your own safety.”
“And what if they write back and tell me to come alone?”
“Pretend like you didn’t get the e-mail. Don’t acknowledge it.”
Because she was shaking her head, not buying it, I added, “Look, Pilar, there’s something very basic you need to keep in mind here. You’re a target. What some might consider an easy target. Stop shaking your head and listen.
“You’re the one who told us there are people in the Masaguan government who know you’re picking up a half-million in cash from the consul general’s office. Two feds saw the DVD, heard the demands. So now maybe their entire office knows. Or staff members in dozens of offices. You can’t trust them. Your words.
“Then there’re the kidnappers. They know you’re here, which means that everyone associated with them knows. What’s to stop one or more of them from trying to intercept you? Cut you out and steal the money for themselves? That’s what makes you a target. Day or night, from the moment you pick up the briefcase at the consul, you’re a target. It puts you right in the middle.”
I puzzled over something for a few seconds before it came to me. “American Indians used to form two lines and make prisoners run between them; hit them with sticks and clubs and stuff- gauntlet, that’s the word. Running the gauntlet. With that much cash involved, you could be attacked from either side at any time. So I’m going with you to Miami.”
Tomlinson said, “Doc’s right. You can count me in, too.”
“When you write back, there’s something else you should add,” I told her. “Lake’s next message needs to contain something personal. That only you or I would know. Something that tells us the e-mails are really from him.”
My meaning had implications so dark that she didn’t comment. Just nodded.
NOW we were on the bottom deck of my house, Pilar standing, watching Tomlinson and me preparing to return the sedated tarpon from its holding tank into the bay. The fish had been in the tank for nearly an hour. Gill coloring and opercula rate were both fine. So far, this first step in what would be a long and complicated series of procedures had gone well.
Like everything else in my life lately, my luck had been good.
Until now.
I am forever and alternately amused then pissed off at how blindly I stumble through life. How is it that I keep forgetting one of the most powerful laws of physics? It is the law of “momentum conservation.” The law states that momentum lost by any collision or impact is equal to the opposite momentum gained.
The law applies to our own day-to-day lives because, during good times or bad, we need to remind ourselves that just when it seems life can’t get any better-or worse-things inevitably change.
And my life had been going very, very well. Lucky in life. Lucky in health. Lucky in love.
I’d been running, swimming, and lifting weights daily with Dewey, who was not just my lover but my all-time favorite, kick-butt workout buddy. With her drill sergeant goading, I’d started eating better, watching my diet.
Something else: A while back, I’d given up alcohol. Had to. I’d gotten into the dangerous habit of drinking myself to sleep every night. So I quit. I piled all the bottles of booze into a box, marched them down to the dock, and left them buried in the marina ice machine for some thirsty soul to discover.
Many months later, when I mentioned to Dewey that I missed having a beer or two at sunset with the rest of the marina family, she offered a suggestion that was as appealing as it was simple. She said, “Do you remember when we first met? Weeknights, you never let yourself drink more than three beers. Ever. Weekends, you’d cut it a little looser, but you never broke your weekday rule. Even for parties. Why not go back and do that?”