If the story was true, not a very good one, I decided.
At ten minutes until three in the morning, I wrote a note to Lourdes confirming I’d read his demands. I wrote it in English to see how he’d react. If I could get him to reply in what I suspected was his native language, I’d learn a lot more about him: Reception confirmed. Please consult your doctors again before I waste my time getting all this stuff. Our people here usually recommend ATGAM and Thymoglobulin over OKT3, particularly for acute rejection episodes. Side effects are similar to OKT3, but are usually less severe. Do your doctors know what they’re doing? None of it’s going to be easy to find, so make sure it’s what they want. I’m not doing anything until we start getting e-mails from the boy. His letters need to include a reference to something current so we know they weren’t written in advance. They also need to be personal enough so we know only he could have written them. This is nonnegotiable, and we expect his first e-mail later today.
I read the thing over more than a half a dozen times, wondering if it was too tough. Decided it needed to be tough.
Finally, I inserted the sentence “Natural history is a familiar topic” just before the sentence that began, “This is nonnegotiable.. .” I hoped Lake would see it; that it would give him the hint he needed.
If he could get outside, or see outside, there were ways for him to tell me where he was geographically. Narrow it down, at least.
I sent the e-mail unsigned.
I got up, stretched, walked through the breezeway that separates the lab from my house, and peeked through the screen door: Ransom and the black cat were curled up in the chair, dozing. She’d transferred the concoction she’d been creating into a clear glass beaker. It was my smallest Pyrex boiling flask from the lab. A boiling flask has a bulbous bottom and a tubular neck. Filled with the turquoise potion, it was as exotic-looking as a genie’s lamp. The flask sat atop my old trans-oceanic shortwave radio-a bizarre combination. Looked like it really could perform voodoo magic.
I wondered how she was going to use the stuff. Did her victims have to come in contact with the goo?
I should have been exhausted, but still felt wakeful, so I decided to make a more careful search of Pilar’s e-mail. I didn’t know how many times Lourdes or his accomplices had communicated with her via the Internet-I hadn’t asked-so there might be more to learn. I returned to the lab, cleaned my glasses, sat at the computer, and began to scan.
Pilar is a methodical woman. She’s also extremely private. I was not surprised to discover that she saved many-maybe all-of the e-mails she’d written (for her records, of course), but preserved few of the e-mails she’d received. Nearly everything in her Old Mail file had been deleted. With the exception of several messages from Lake-his Chamaeleo address jumped out at me-and a dozen or so others, the file was empty. None had a Nicarado. org address, so I went into her Mail Sent file and concentrated on studying the subject headings and addresses there.
Her replies to the kidnappers might well tell me the content of their messages to her.
On Thursday, May 1, the day she discovered Lake missing, she’d written to a lot of people. Same was true of Friday, May 2. The numbers suggested a kind of emotional frenzy. Understandable.
Judging from the recipient addresses, many of the letters had to do with inquiring about travel, contacting the Masaguan counsul general’s office, and also arranging for people to look after her private affairs while she was away.
Several were to Kahlil39. Her correspondence with him was busy. Not as sappy from her end, but still something serious going on. Subject headings were: “One heart,” “Dear Man.” On the day that Lake disappeared, it was “Desperate!”
I was tempted to actually read one of her earlier letters to him, but that ugly voyeur-guilt stopped my hand on the mouse. I wondered how Kahlil would feel if he knew she’d vanished with one of America’s horniest, most sexually active Zen Buddhist monks.
Pilar had even saved the note she’d sent to an ex-lover she now reviled-me. I saw my Sanibel Biological Supply e-mail address; saw the subject heading-“Personal/important”-and opened it so that I could re-read: Greetings to you. I’m arriving in Miami on Monday, and would very much like to speak to you in person about an important matter. May I visit you Tuesday afternoon on Sanibel? Please give my warm regards to Tomlinson…
It had seemed chilly when I read it then. It seemed chillier now.
Several of the recipients had Nicarado. org addresses. That got me excited, but my excitement was wasted. I opened each to find that Pilar was usually replying to a teacher or a librarian who had a public account.
Now I was tired. Her stack of sent mail was so lengthy that I decided I’d done enough, and I’d had enough. I’d been awake for slightly more than twenty-one hours-twenty-one very active hours-and so I moved the mouse for a final quick scan of subject headings before signing off… and then I stopped, confused… then baffled.
On the afternoon that Pilar discovered Lake missing, she had written an e-mail to Tinman@Fight4Right. org. The first two words of the subject heading were the same as on her note to me, “Personal/important.” But added to that were three incongruous words: “About our son.”
About our son?
Whose son? Lake, our son, was her only child.
Confused, I looked at the top of the page. Maybe I was dopey from exhaustion. I checked to make certain I was still in her Mail Sent file.
Yes, I was.
I checked to see if she was forwarding a letter from someone else.
No.
Had she actually written the e-mail and sent it?
Yes, hers was the source address. The subject heading was Pilar’s: “Personal/important about our son.”
One of the first symptoms of shock can be a roaring sound in the inner ear.
Nearly deafened, I clicked on the subject line. Then I opened the e-mail to read what was inside.
NINETEEN
It was written in English, and the beginning of the letter was very similar to the note that Pilar had written to me: My Dear Tinman, Greetings to you. I’m arriving in Florida on Monday. If we can work out the logistics, I would very much like to speak to you in person about an urgent matter, even though I realize it may be awkward…
Its contents then changed dramatically: I’ve written you several times over the last year, yet you’ve never replied. I beg you to please answer me now. A terrible thing has happened, and you should be informed. My son, Laken, has been abducted and is being held for ransom. I am terrified and don’t know what to do. Can’t we please talk? More than ever, I now need to ask you those questions. We were once friends, and I still think of you fondly. I know that neither of us has wanted to acknowledge the possibility that you are Laken’s father. I have always wondered. There’s something you don’t know. Slightly more than a year ago, I received information about MF that made me hope that it’s true you are his father. Now, I really do have reason to believe you are the one. This is the sixth time I’ve written you in the last few months, and you have not replied. Please answer me now when I am so desperate for your help. Years ago, when I gave you the chance, you chose to disappear from our lives. Don’t disappear now. P
I whispered two words. Two soft profanities. Then I stood slowly and walked on shaky legs to the lab station. I removed my glasses and ducked my head beneath the gooseneck faucet, and let the cold water run. I turned, buried my face in a towel, rubbing hard, drying hair and face, feeling a bizarre sense of unreality, seeing swirls and starbursts of color behind my eyes.