“Don’t call me that. Can we get a satellite phone to her?”
“They say that Armenta is phobic about phones of all kinds,” said Mike. “Only he and his trusted few can have one. So, we can smuggle something in to her, but the question then becomes, can she keep it? What sort of wrath would she receive? They’ll search. They’ll find her things. Oh, Brad. I almost forgot. I’ve got something else for you here in my bag of tricks.”
Finnegan hopped down and lifted one of the bags to the stool and searched through it. From down in a corner he produced a small metal tube and handed it to Bradley.
At first Bradley thought it was a gun cartridge casing but it was far too light and there was an odd clasp affixed to one side. He held the clasp and twisted one end of the tube open. Inside was stuffed some kind of cloth. He worried it out with his pocketknife blade and it dropped to the tabletop. He unrolled the material, fine silk or maybe a sheer linen, and it became a square approximately five by five inches and covered with Erin’s tight cursive writing in blue ink.
Dear B, I’m okay and so is he. Owens F. is here and she says this will get to Mike then you. She says Arm finds and destroys cell and sat phones but he doesn’t suspect pigeons as there are many in the coop and the message containers are easy to hide. She seems to be Arm’s but says she is here of free will. Is a very disturbing woman. I am okay but terrified. Please hurry. Get me out of here. Erin
Bradley felt the great rush of tears and he couldn’t stop them. There she was. Her hand had written this to him. She was alive and well and so was their son. The tears of joy and hope burned his eyes as he stared down at her words. “God, this is great news.”
“I’m glad to deliver it to you.”
“What’s Owens doing with Armenta?”
“They’ve known each other for years.”
“You smuggled her a homing pigeon?”
“Three of them. Actually, I had them smuggled to her by an underpaid Quintana Roo propane delivery man. I’ll certainly introduce you to him, but to be truthful I was never confident that he’d complete his mission.”
“You never told me you kept pigeons.”
Mike gave him a boy’s grin. “Oh, forever.”
A possibility hit him, and Bradley wiped the tears with his hand and flicked them onto the tavern table. “The propane guy also brought three of Armenta’s birds out for you. Because we need some that will fly back to the Castle. Right?”
“Yes,” said Mike, his eyes sparkling with glee. “I am so proud of me sometimes.”
“Then we have a way to contact her.”
“Well, three ways. Would you like to see them?”
Bradley slipped the leather map folder between his belt and the small of his back, then pulled on his rain jacket. Mike stashed the newly arrived bottle of rum in one of his book bags then snugged the folded plastic lawn bags against the rain. He looked up at Bradley and gestured at the door like a butler, palm up, scar not visible to Bradley in the poor tavern light.
17
Mike’s apartment was on an alley several blocks north and east, off of M. Doblado. It was in the zona historico, the oldest part of a very old city. Bradley had trouble keeping up with the little man as he barreled along the narrow streets and by the time they were climbing the stone steps to the front door the rain had slackened and the wind died down.
Inside the apartment smelled of seawater and ancient rock. “Built in eighteen-forty-eight,” said Mike. “For Veracruz, practically brand- new. One hundred and one years before Woodrow Wilson’s attack. Downstairs was a livery and upstairs the residence. Retrofitted for running water and electricity. Later a hostel.”
As the lights fluttered on in the foyer Bradley saw that the main room had a high ceiling and there was a balcony that faced east toward the Gulf of Mexico. The windows had been left open and the wind and rain easily blew in past the grates and swayed what looked like very old drapes.
Finnegan unslung the book bags and pulled the windows closed and motioned Bradley to follow. They passed a small kitchen lit by a very weak bulb. The hallway was long and made of hardwood that creaked under Bradley’s boots. They passed a bedroom on the right and another to the left, then they climbed a narrow wooden stairway and Mike was talking as he headed up.
“Yoo-hoo, my fine feathered friends. It’s just me again, your favorite creature, bringing someone very special here to meet you.”
He turned and drew Bradley by his arm into the room.
“My flock, meet the son of Murrieta!”
Bradley stepped into a half-story, smelled the green stink of caged birds, saw the head-high coop that stretched from wall to wall, saw the bursts of feathers and seed as the animals flapped and dodged. Their alarm spread quickly through the enclosure, then just as quickly it was gone and the birds, Bradley guessed maybe twenty in all, settled on their nests and perches and peered out at the men with the curiosity of pigeons everywhere.
Mike was smiling. First at the birds and then at Bradley, then at the birds again.
“I’ll bet each one has a name,” said Bradley.
“Well, that’s Jason in the corner there, and beautiful Ambrosia on her nest.”
“It’s a hobby?”
“It’s one more way to see the world.”
Bradley looked around the spacious room. The floor was more brick-red tile and the ceiling paint was peeling. The walls were lined with bookcases to a height of about six feet, and the cases were full. Bradley recognized some of the languages on the spines. Above the shelves the walls were festooned with weapons and devices apparently made for torture, all very old. There was a leather recliner with a colorful serape flung across the back, and a reading lamp beside it. There was a long wooden table in the middle of the room and a wheeled chair. The table was cluttered with books and magazines and sketchbooks and large graph-paper blotters strangled by doodles and notations. A laptop computer sat closed on the blotter. Beside it was a small earthen dish containing a handful of message containers for the pigeons. Some looked well used and others nearly new. There was a short stack of fabric squares similar to the one that Erin had written on.
“You communicate with other fanciers?”
“Do I ever! Of the twenty-four birds in there right now, only six are actually my own. Released from anywhere, within reason, they’ll fly right back to me bearing the messages of my friends and associates. The other eighteen belong to friends I’ve made over time. We exchange a few here and there when we meet, so we always have an adequate flock.”
“What do you write to each other about?”
“The Earth and everything upon it.”
“For about the same cost as a cell phone, I’d guess. Once you figure in the food and grit and vitamins and vet bills and-”
“Quite a bit cheaper, actually, and of course they breed for free, just like people. But it’s not about cost. It’s not even really about communication. It’s about the medium itself. The medium is the message, as we’ve been taught, so it follows that a slow method of communication will reveal different meanings than a fast one. You get very different rewards when you compose longhand and deliver your brief notes on the wings of birds! You get shorter, more compact thoughts and ideas. You get ideas that are, well, smaller but larger. And this relative slowness with which they are delivered really does nothing to impede the flow of conversation about Earth’s important events because, as you know, important events almost never happen quickly. Earthquakes and spectacular accidents aside.”
“You’re talking like, geology and history.”
“Not like them. They themselves. I’m quite drunk. Shall we have another? Listen to that rain coming down out there. The lovely Ivana is most assuredly on her way now.”
“She’s aimed at the Yucatan,” said Bradley. “At Erin.”