The truth of what had happened was becoming clearer in my mind despite Victorino’s dissembling. As the man continued talking, inventing details, I was studying the portion of wall that had been blown open. It was a narrow section of planking wide enough for me to see inside, if the angle was right, but not large in comparison with the rest of the structure.
It bothered me for some reason. What I was seeing didn’t mesh with my knowledge of explosives and the complex dynamics involved. At that instant, as if to illustrate, another propane canister exploded, and we both ducked instinctively, watching a column of red sparks shoot skyward.
Victorino was telling me, “My boys and me, we sold them grass, coke, whatever. Sometimes moved some of the muscle juice shit they made-strictly business, you understand. That’s the only reason we come out here tonight. Then this shit happened.”
What bothered me about the hole in the wall, I realized, was that the boards had shattered geometrically, yet it was a random displacement of matter in an otherwise solid wall.
What I was seeing made no sense. An explosive force creates a rapidly expanding wave of pressure slightly larger than the volume of the explosive. It expands with predictable symmetry-a three-dimensional sphere capped by a matrix of superheated gases and particles. The matrix created by the exploding propane takes was rocketing upward. Why had this small space been blown outward?
But then I decided that the anomaly could be explained in many ways. A weakness in the structure, an absence of bracing because the hole had once been a window or a door. The shack looked homemade, sturdy but inconsistent. What I was doing, I realized, was fishing for hope-hope that the girl and Squires had managed to crash their way through the wall and escape.
The fire had started so suddenly, though, the heat and flames so intense that the pair would have had very little time to knock a hole in what had been a very solid wall. And they had both been tied, hands and legs.
“The bitch invited us,” Victorino told me. “She told me they had a new batch of muscle juice. Only reason my boys and me were here tonight. And we got certain security procedures we follow. Two guards at the gate, two of my best men with me riding shotgun. A dude they don’t know shows up, they’re trained to take certain steps. It was nothing personal. You understand.”
I waited, watching Victorino’s eyes move from the fire to the shattered windows of the Dodge pickup, aware that at least two of his men were dead inside. The truck appearing animated in the oscillating light. I wondered if the man would have the nerve to ask what he was aching to know. He finally tried.
“Maybe you know something about the steroid trade yourself?” I watched Victorino grin, showing his gold teeth. He wasn’t a badlooking guy, actually. He had a good chin, a strong Aztec nose and cheeks. Had the man made different decisions-or been born in a different setting-he might have succeeded in a legitimate business.
Staring into the fire, I said, “Her name was Tula Choimha-the surname dates back to the time of the Maya. She was thirteen years old, two thousand miles from home, and the girl had no one to protect her from scum like you. That’s why I’m here.”
Victorino chose not to respond.
Slowly, I backed away from the heat. Victorino backed away, too, but he was gradually creating more distance between us, I noticed, until I hollered at him to stop. I used the pistol to wave him closer, before telling him, “Let’s get in the truck and get the hell out of here. You drive.”
It surprised the man. He replied, “Both of us you mean?” unsure if he had less to fear or more to fear.
“A plane or a helicopter’s going to spot the flames,” I told him. “Cops and firefighters will be coming soon. Maybe park rangers-we’re close enough to the Everglades. I don’t want to be here when they show up. How about you?”
I had taken off the night vision headgear, and Victorino jerked his head away when he realized I was going to remove the ski mask, too.
Mask up-but not off-my face pouring sweat, I told the man, “It’s okay. You can look.”
Victorino was three steps ahead of me, facing the truck. I could see his mind working, wondering what was going on.
The man stood frozen for what seemed like several seconds. Perhaps because I began to whisper to myself, repeating a private liturgy, he finally turned to look at me.
When he did, I asked, “Where’s the money? Sixty thousand dollars cash.” I didn’t know if the drunken woman was telling the truth, but I was thinking about Tula Choimha’s determination to lead her family home to Guatemala. They would need money.
Victorino’s eyes revealed the money’s location, but I waited until he lied to me, replying, “Money? What money?” the staged look of confusion still on the man’s face when I shot him in the chest. A few seconds later, I shot him at close range in the back of the head.
His partner’s. 44 Smith amp; Wesson made a thud when it landed on the ground beside Victorino’s body.
I wasn’t going to invest much time searching for the money-if it existed. What I had told Victorino was true. The hunting camp was in one of the most remote regions in Florida, yet a fire of that magnitude might still attract attention.
I found the cash in a canvas gym bag on the floor of Squires’s truck, along with a. 357 Ruger Blackhawk revolver. The temptation was to get behind the wheel of the truck, and drive as fast as I could back to the main road. But then I remembered that the Dodge blocked the exit. Bulldozing the thing out of the way would take time and would make a lot of noise. It would also prove that at least one of the shooters had escaped.
It was safer, cleaner, if I returned on foot.
To add further confusion to the scene, I tossed the Blackhawk under the truck, then took off, jogging toward the darkness, gym bag over my shoulder, as I repositioned the night vision monocular over my left eye.
I had learned my lesson. Until I was close enough to my truck to risk stepping into the open, I would stay in the shadows. To me, darkness-and open water-have always represented safety.
I am a stubborn man, though. Because the anomalous hole in the wall still bothered me and because it would be the driest route back to my truck, I chose to run past the burning shack before turning into the woods. There, the topography was upland pine. Plenty of cover but lots of open ground, unlike the swamp to my right. It would be a hell of a lot easier to parallel the hunting camp road before angling to the gate where my truck was hidden.
There was a third reason: I also believed that if Squires and the girl had managed to escape, they would have had to travel a similar path to safety. It was unlikely that they had survived, but it would satisfy my mania for thoroughness while also providing an ironic last hope that my obssessiveness hadn’t cost a young girl her life.
It happened.
Fifty yards into the woods, north of where the shack was still burning, I heard a mewing sound. It was soft, rhythmic, a noise so similar to the sound of wind in the pine canopy that I would have dismissed it as a feral cat had I not been wearing night vision.
After only a few more steps, I could discern the source of the noise. It was Tula Choimha. She was kneeling over a massive shape that I soon realized was the body of Harris Squires.
I had been moving so quietly, the girl hadn’t heard me. I didn’t want to frighten her, but I also realized that I couldn’t allow her to see my face. I lowered the ski mask, readjusted the monocular, then knelt before calling to her softly, “Tomlinson sent me. Don’t be afraid. Your friend Tomlinson wants me to help you.”
It was as if I had spoken a secret password. Instead of being startled, the girl jumped to her feet and ran to me, sobbing, then threw herself into my arms. Only when she noticed my strange headgear did she recoil, but I patted her between the shoulders as I held her and spoke into her ear, saying, “I’m taking you home. Please don’t ask me any questions. Okay? But it’s true, I’m taking you home.”