I’ve seen them all over the state-particularly around baseball diamonds-flying in chattering flocks, wobbly in flight as if the ancestral memory of pet stores and cages has made them unsteady.
Like the coconut palm, the monk parakeet’s not a native, but unlike the tree, the hearty animal ranges all over the country.
We wondered if Lake had avoided calling the bird by its more common name because Lourdes, at least occasionally, wore monk’s robes.
The reference in the e-mail that neither of us could decipher was the line that read, “I’ve definitely seen reddish egrets feeding on the mature tadpole.”
A mature tadpole is a frog. Lourdes may not have known that, but my son certainly did. In Florida, we have pig frogs, leopard frogs, barking dog frogs, bullfrogs-all kinds of frogs. And larger wading birds, which are fierce predators, sometimes feed on them, just as they feed on snakes and lizards. Why hadn’t Lake just come right out and used the word “frog”? Why was it to be avoided?
Tomlinson and I discussed the odd wording- feeding on the mature tadpole, singular-and decided it was, most probably, an accidental error in syntax.
If there was additional meaning, we could not grasp it.
“That’s O.K. We’re closing in on them,” Tomlinson said. “The map’s getting smaller and smaller.”
He meant that literally. Because I’ve traveled so much, I have a good collection of maps. We had a map of Gulf Coast states open on my stainless-steel dissecting table. Each time we eliminated an area, we would fold it out of sight. The map was now the size of a thick paper towel, and showed only the Gulf Coast section of Florida between Cedar Key and Englewood.
Now I watched Tomlinson bracket Tampa Bay with thumb and forefinger. He touched Tarpon Springs to the north, Anna Maria Island to the south. “They’re somewhere between here,” he said. “Maybe on some island. Just because Lake didn’t see coconut palms doesn’t mean there might not be a few around, so let’s hedge a little to the south. But more likely they’re in the Tampa-St. Petersburg area. That e-mail message that Lourdes canceled, the one that told us to drive to St. Pete? That’s suggestive. That tells me Lake and the Masked Man are hiding out somewhere close to there.”
I agreed. “When he had us driving around Miami with that tattooed giant, he kept an eye on us from a boat. Do you think it’s reasonable to assume, if he is holed up in the Tampa area, that he has access to a boat? Because if you think he does, I’m going to load my skiff and run up there in the morning. I can poke around and maybe get a lucky break or two while you and Pilar stay in touch on this end.” I glanced at my watch: 11:20 P.M. “Hell, I’m tempted to go tonight.”
Tomlinson said, “Even if he doesn’t have a boat, we know they’re near the water. So, yeah, your fast stinkpot might be just what the doctor ordered. But wait till morning, man. We’ve got too much other stuff to do. Or you know what might make more sense? You trailer your boat, and I sail No Mas up the coast. That way, we have a water base, water transport, and ground transport.”
It was a perfectly reasonable proposal, so I couldn’t refuse, but I found it oddly disappointing. There’s something freeing about stocking a boat with food, drink, and ice, then heading out over unencumbered water. After all the stress I’d been under, it’s what my instincts told me to do.
Which was why it was difficult not to grab the keys to my skiff, just get in the boat, and go. I kept pacing to the lab’s north window and staring out into the moon-bright bay. My son was almost certainly out there. Not so far away in this night. Beyond a few islands, removed by a few bays.
So, to keep my mind occupied, I used Tomlinson to talk a couple of subjects through. A few things were troubling me. They just didn’t add up. Like Lourdes’ motives for coming to the United States. It’d been on my mind since I first began to suspect that Lourdes was in Florida, so it was my turn to pose some question to Tomlinson.
I said, “Why would he take the risk? And how? You saw the photos of what his face looked like. Even if he managed to smuggle Lake into the country on a private plane or boat, how could a man with those kinds of injuries travel around unnoticed, unquestioned, with a kidnapped boy?”
Tomlinson said, “I’ve been thinking about that ever since Pilar first showed us the photos of Lourdes. Since Tuesday when you said you couldn’t understand how a man with a face like his could blend in with the general population and avoid the Nicaraguan cops. Doc, what I keep coming back to is, you’re right. I suppose that, in fact, it’s possible that he could do it. But, in reality, it’s a statistical improbability. There’s a fine difference between the two, which I’m sure you realize. What’s the Arthur Conan Doyle line that you like? Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains-however improbable-is your answer.”
I was nodding, tracking the logic, because I’d been thinking the same thing. “In the video, he put off a weird, theatrical vibe. He could be dressed up in some kind of costume, something that covers his face. Or he could bandage his face as if his burn scars were still fresh.”
Tomlinson said slowly, “Yeah… I suppose. And, yeah, you’re right about the theatrical business…”
I was listening to a fast boat outside heading in our direction, slowing on its approach, as I added, “Aside from that, I agree with you: It’s highly improbable that a man wearing a mask, or with a face that’s been scarred, can travel around incognito. So a reasonable hypothesis is that either his face has been changed in some way, or. .. or the man we are dealing with is not Praxcedes Lourdes. We haven’t thought about that. What if it’s not the same person?”
Both of us were now listening to the approaching boat when my telephone began to ring-I’d just signed off from the Internet, making the phone line available for the first time in more than an hour.
I walked across the lab to answer the phone as Tomlinson walked to the window to see who was coming up in the boat.
It was Dewey calling.
I listened to my estranged lover say, “Jesus Christ, you talk on the phone for hours. Like some old woman jabbering to Thelma about her damn gall bladder operation or something. Or some old fart rambling on with some dugout buddy about his last woody, it was so many years ago he can barely remember, and how he shoulda blown it a kiss goodbye because that would have been the last action he ever got. The older you get, the more pathetic you are, Ford. I think dumping you may’ve been the smartest decision I’ve ever made in my life.”
I was grinning, but I felt a welling of emotion, too, that made my voice tight. “You’re as sweet-natured as ever, Dew. It’s so good to hear your voice. Where the hell are you? We need to talk. I… I miss you a lot.”
“We are talking, numb-nuts. We’d have been talking an hour ago if you’d shake the moths out of that billfold of yours and pay for a designated computer line. I know you, you hate talking on the phone.” Her voice softened-tough jock act over-and she nearly broke into tears as she added, “So I know the real reason the line was busy. You were tunneled into that computer of yours, doing some kind of research, into your Thoreau act, oblivious to the current century and everything else. And I… I miss you, too, Doc.”
Judging from the poor reception, she was calling long distance from someplace with antiquated service, or she was on a cell phone. The way her words faded in and out, I got the mental image of telephone wires strung across desolate countryside, swaying in the night wind.
So maybe Europe, returned to visit her old lover, Walda. Or the wilds of New York. Or someplace in the Midwest where she’d once said her family had roots. Or maybe, just maybe, calling from a cell phone aboard a boat only a few marinas away. Impossible to tell.