“I thought about that but this building has sprinklers. How are you feeling?”
Mercer ignored Harry’s genuine concern. “I am going to get you for this, you bastard.”
The door opened again and in stepped a man of about forty. Medium height and trim, he had a full dark beard and a bush of thick hair. He wore a white robe and sandals.
“You’re too late, Roddy,” Harry greeted the newcomer. “Miguel already ruined it.”
This time, Mercer couldn’t stop the laughter. Harry had really outdone himself, going so far as to find someone to play a Latin Jesus Christ.
“Good, I feel ridiculous.” The ersatz Jesus pulled the robe over his head. Beneath he wore slacks and a colorful open-necked shirt. He smiled at Mercer. “Welcome back to the living. I am Rodrigo Herrara.”
“Roddy’s father served with me for a time as an engineer,” Harry explained. Before the incident that had claimed his leg in the 1950s, Harry White had been a ship’s captain, first for the U.S. Navy and then on tramp steamers in Asia. “After I got to Panama and learned that you were in the hospital from Captain Vanik, who I might add had the courtesy to meet me at the airport, I looked him up. Roddy’s dad died a few years ago, but he knew about me from his old man. Roddy’s a canal pilot. Or was until recently. He has three kids around Miguel’s age so he and his wife have been looking after him.”
Mercer shook the Panamanian’s hand. “I bet now you’re questioning your father’s choice of friends.”
“Sí.” Roddy Herrara smiled.
“Where am I and how long have I been here?”
“You’re in a private room at the Centro Medico Paitilla, Panama’s best hospital,” Lauren answered, giving Mercer more water. “You’ve been here four days. The doctors decided to keep you drugged while they pumped you full of antibiotics because your reactions to the infection were pretty violent. How do you feel?”
“Weak, but not as bad as I should.”
“Because they kept you hydrated they said you’d come out of it in decent shape. Also, you only vomited for eighteen hours, which I guess is pretty short for bacillary dysentery.”
“Considering Paris is the City of Love, why couldn’t you have gotten VD like normal people?” Harry quipped.
Like any child, Miguel intuitively knew he’d heard a bad word. “What is VD?”
Roddy gave a stern answer in Spanish and Miguel fell silent. “They grow up fast enough without your jokes, Harry,” he admonished mildly.
“What do I know about kids?” Harry said, mussing Miguel’s hair. He whispered down to him, “We’ll talk about it later.”
A nurse came in, snapping a terse order to let Mercer sleep. Everyone left after giving a few words of encouragement until only Lauren remained. She placed her hand over Mercer’s. That’s when he recalled the pleasant aromas from one of his moments of lucidity. Flowers and mint. The floral smell was her perfume. The mint was her toothpaste. For those scents to linger, he guessed she’d spent a great deal of time at his side.
She brushed aside a lock of his fever-brittled hair. “How long did you have symptoms before you got sick?”
“I started fighting it when we were in the tent. That’s why I raced to reach the plane. If I’d collapsed at the lake it would have taken too much time for you and Miguel to go get help.” He looked into her eyes. “But you getting me to a hospital was what really saved my life. Thank you.”
Lauren leaned in to kiss his forehead, her hair like a wave of silk that brushed his cheek. Her skin was flawlessly smooth and her neck so slender it appeared that it couldn’t support her head. Again he found himself fascinated by her bicolored eyes.
“From what Harry’s told me about you, I think you’d have made it without me.” She paused at the door. “When you’re feeling better, we have a lot to talk about. Roddy knows who owns that helicopter.”
Against his doctor’s orders, Mercer checked himself out of the hospital thirty-six hours later. He’d kept down his bland meals and felt his strength return remarkably fast. Because Lauren refused to tell him more of her findings until he was recovered, his desire to get to the truth more than overcame his shaky limbs. She and Harry accompanied him in the short cab ride from the hospital to Harry’s hotel.
The high-rise Caesar Park was located on the beach south of Panama City, a combination executive hotel and tourist destination. Mercer got stares from both groups as his friends led him across the tiled lobby. He could walk all right; it was his pallor that drew attention. True to form, Harry had used Mercer’s credit card to book a three-room suite near the top floor. A maid was cleaning up the countless room service trays when they arrived. Another attendant was restocking the depleted mini-bar.
Mercer collapsed into a plush captain’s chair. “And what’s this costing me a night?”
“More than the hospital room, I’m sure.” Unconcerned by Mercer’s scowl, Harry fixed them all drinks, triple Jack and ginger for himself, a vodka gimlet for Mercer and Glenfiddich in a highball glass for Lauren. “Roddy’s bringing his family to use the pool. When he gets here we can talk.”
Mercer spent the time in the bathroom while they waited, calling out once for Harry to make him another drink as he soaked in the tub. Lauren and Harry had done some shopping on his behalf, because in one of the bedrooms were clothes in his size. He threw on jeans, a polo shirt, and sneakers.
“I don’t trust your newfound consideration, Harry. What are you playing at?”
“I was hoping you’d cover the line of credit I blew at the casino,” the octogenarian breezed. “And let me use this room for a week or so. I haven’t had a vacation since God knows when.”
“You’ve been retired for years and you practically live in Tiny’s Bar.” Mercer’s tone was sarcastic, but teasing. “Your whole life is a vacation.”
Before Harry could launch a protest there was a knock on the door and four noisy children, including Miguel, tumbled into the room followed by Rodrigo Herrara and an attractive woman a few years younger than he. After quick introductions, Carmen Herrara took the eager kids back down to the swimming pool behind the hotel.
“You are looking well,” Roddy opined to Mercer after accepting a beer.
“The doctors said the best thing for me is rest and food, both of which are better here.” Mercer waved an arm around the opulent sitting room. “Lauren said you know something about the helicopter that attacked Ruben and his men. Thanks for coming over and sharing it.”
“I haven’t worked in four months,” Roddy said, the admission underscored with embarrassment. “Coming to this hotel is like Christmas for Carmen and the children. I should be thanking you.”
Mercer found his eagerness to learn more about the helicopter tempered. Despite the loss of his job, Herrara had taken in Miguel without question and Mercer owed it to the man to hear his story. More than that, he realized, he truly wanted to know. Roddy’s voice and demeanor bespoke of a pride not yet crushed by circumstance—a dignity that Mercer respected instantly. “Didn’t Harry say you worked for the canal?”
“I was a ship pilot until my license was pulled following a suspicious accident.”
“Suspicious?”
“Coming out of the Pedro Miguel Locks headed toward the Atlantic, the ore carrier I was piloting suddenly veered into the oncoming lane. We scraped a smaller freighter, putting a hole in her hull just above her waterline. Fortunately no one was hurt. The inquiry found nothing mechanically wrong with my ship so they determined it was my fault.”
Harry interrupted. “Roddy’s said the same thing’s happened to three other pilots in the same place. He said it was like they hit a powerful crosscurrent that forced them off course. The Pedro Miguel is just south of the Gaillard Cut, the canal’s narrowest point, and there are no currents nearby. It shouldn’t have happened.”