When he finally drifted back to sleep, the nightmares returned. Only this time it was Rene Bruneseau who manipulated the acupuncture needles.
Lake Gatun, Panama
The boat was a twenty-four-foot Wellcraft, old but well maintained. The elements had yellowed her fiberglass shell, contrasting with the recently repainted red strip along her waterline. Her stern was molded into bench seats that hid the engine and partially insulated its throaty growl. Accessible between the two front seats was a forward cabin outfitted with two beds, a tiny kitchen, and a small cubicle for a chemical toilet. She was perfect for a romantic weekend cruise on the lake, where thousands of secluded bays and uninhabited islands beckoned.
Behind the powerboat a wake of white foam spread like an elongated arrow on the glassy green water. The overnight rains had ended and the morning haze had burned off. The sun beat mercilessly. The breeze of their twenty-knot speed kept the four people on the boat from wilting in the heat.
Had Mercer been able to forget what lay at the end of this journey, he would have cracked a beer and enjoyed himself.
He stripped off his shirt, leaving him in just shorts and sneakers. He watched with fascination as the unusual coast-line rolled by. It was tough to imagine that the immense body of water wasn’t a natural formation. Lake Gatun, in fact all of the Panama Canal, represented an unprecedented triumph of human engineering over a nearly insurmountable obstacle. Geology had separated the Atlantic from the Pacific three million years ago and now they were connected across a lake floating eighty-four feet above sea level. That the canal was nearly a century old made it that much more impressive.
From the boat’s speeding deck, Mercer found himself hard pressed to find evidence of the lake’s unnatural birth. Farther on, past Gamboa where the canal narrowed toward the Gaillard Cut, its man-made nature revealed itself, but here it looked like any other lake in the world. It wasn’t until he looked closely at the islands that he could tell they had once been hilltops and the lake’s meandering shore the flanks of mountains. There was little evidence of erosion and only a few small sections of beach. Also, the vegetation covering the islands contained few aquatic plants. There were no marshes or wetlands, as he’d expect to see. The jungle simply stopped at the water’s edge where it ran out of soil. Outside the shipping lanes, he occasionally saw the tips of old telegraph poles sticking from the water’s surface, birds perched on the rotting wood. They were remnants of the old rail line that had been submerged when the lake formed.
He imagined that this is what the world would look like if the polar ice ever melted. The endless parade of ponderous freighters and tankers only enhanced that impression. It was easy to think that the last remnants of humanity were borne on their great hulls like a flotilla of modern-day Noah’s Arks out of some post-apocalyptic science-fiction scenario.
Juan Aranjo, Carmen Herrara’s brother, kept them well outside the buoys that marked the shipping lanes as they sped away from Limon toward the Pedro Miguel Lock. He spoke no English and seemed content in silence rather than engaging Lauren in conversation.
Lauren’s cell phone chimed.
She waved for Mercer to answer it. She and Tomanovic were checking over the equipment she had rented at Scubapanama, the country’s premier dive shop, where she was known.
He dug it out of her knapsack. “Hello.”
“Mercer, it’s Roddy.”
“Are you guys out of the house?”
“We just got to our new hotel. The kids are getting spoiled by your generosity. Even Miguel wasn’t so disappointed about you leaving him behind when he found there is a pool here. And Harry’s already working his way through the mini-bar.”
Mercer smiled at that image. “Have you heard anything from Foch? There was no answer when I tried calling him from Limon.”
“No, I haven’t,” Roddy said. “A couple of his men made sure we got to the hotel safely but I haven’t spoken with him. However, I did get a call this morning from a friend of yours. Maria Barber.”
That was the last person Mercer had ever expected to hear from again. “Really? What did she say?” A thought occurred to him and concern crept into his voice. “Hold on, how did she know to call you? She thinks I’m in D.C.”
“Don’t worry. I asked her the same thing. She tried your home in Washington and then took a chance calling me. She said you’d told her about me when you two had dinner.”
Mercer had worked to purge the whole ugly night from his memory so he didn’t specifically remember that part of their conversation. “What did she want?”
“Besides you?” Roddy teased, then turned serious. “She claims she has some information about her husband’s death.”
“Did she say what it was?”
“No, she wanted to talk to you in person. I told her you were going out on Gatun with my brother-in-law and couldn’t be reached. I have her number if you want to call her.”
“How did she sound?”
“Like she’d started her morning with a couple of Bloody Marys.”
Mercer’s mouth turned downward. “Keep the number. I’ll call her when we’re finished.” Or maybe he wouldn’t call her at all. It was unlikely she had any pertinent information. She was probably just drunk and lonely, and looking for affection. His pity for her went only so far.
“Where are you guys?” Roddy asked.
“According to the chart Juan showed me, I think we just passed Barro Colorado Island. We’re going to hold up near here until late afternoon. I don’t want us hanging out near the Pedro Miguel Lock longer than necessary.”
“Good idea. The Canal Authority hasn’t banned pleasure boats from approaching the locks, but with the heightened security they could ask you to leave if they get suspicious. Call me when you’re done.”
“Will do,” Mercer said and killed the connection.
Ten minutes later, Juan Aranjo cut away from the shipping buoys and motored toward the shore, tucking his boat into an isolated bay far from where they could be seen. He took them under an overhang of thick palms to hide them from aerial observation and the noontime sun. After killing the engine, he tossed a small anchor over the side. The jungle was a riot of bird calls.
Lauren declined his offer to use the cabin so Juan went below to sleep through the afternoon. Like soldiers anywhere in the world, Tomanovic found a corner to curl up in. The gentle sway of the boat and the shaded warmth lulled him immediately to sleep.
“All your equipment check out?” Mercer asked Lauren quietly.
“We’re good to go.” If she was nervous about diving near the lock it didn’t show in her voice. Lauren gave him a level gaze. “Can I ask what really happened to you at the mine?”
Mercer’s stomach clamped. All morning he’d convinced himself that he could put the incident out of his mind. The frantic preparations—getting the dive gear, picking up Tomanovic and meeting up with Juan—had kept him occupied. Now that they had a couple of hours with nothing to do but wait, he’d hoped the memories would remain suppressed. Lauren’s question brought the whole thing back in brutal clarity.
“Why do you ask?” he hedged.
“Something tells me that the description you gave us in Roddy’s kitchen wasn’t the whole story.” She paused. “From the bedroom Carmen let me use I could hear you moaning and thrashing in your sleep.”
Mercer wasn’t comfortable giving voice to what bothered him. He’d witnessed so much ugliness and death that it would take a lifetime to talk it out. Instead, he steadily purged it himself, banishing it to the darkest corners of his memory where only nightmares dwelled. He knew that it was an ill-advised attempt at denial, but somehow it seemed to work.