"What's this, man? An Indian arrowhead? Naw, it's a—"
"It's a shark's tooth," Ford said.
Tomlinson was staring at the ground. "Hey, they're all over the place. There's one; there's another one. A big one, too—"
"Don't pick it up. Just keep walking."
"What are sharks' teeth doing up here, man? We must be a mile from the ocean and at least a half mile from the lake. A lot higher, too."
"It's because we're standing where the lake used to be."
"Huh?"
"The earthquakes didn't cover the lake, they moved it. That's why no one ever found anything looking in the lake."
"I'll be damned!" Tomlinson couldn't resist, and picked up another shark's tooth. "Yeah, right—I get it. The whole bottom shifted." He turned to Ford. "But how did you know? Did Pilar tell you?"
Ford said, "No, I told her."
They were herded across the parade ground to a fiberglass structure about forty feet long and fifteen feet wide set apart from the other, smaller huts. Two guards with automatic weapons lounged outside, and they watched blankly as Suarez snapped open the padlock. "Your hotel while you are our guests." Grinning like a comedian, Suarez mfade a sweeping gesture with his arm. "But do not get so comfortable. I am sure General Zacul will want to speak with you soon. Tomorrow, yes. Or the next day." He had made a joke in English and was laughing.
Inside, daylight filtered through a grating at the far end creating a dusky darkness that emphasized the heat and the stench. Ford was aware of movement inside, of other shapes hunched close to the ground. Then his eyes adjusted and he could §ee that the shapes were human; people chained to the walls, sitting in the stink of their own offal, no longer bothering to swat at the flies that buzzed in a translucent veil around their faces.
Most of them were men, but there was at least one boy, too. Ford stood breathing shallowly in the foul air, studying the child chained beneath the grating. The boy was using his free hand in play, trying to build a tiny house of twigs but without much success. The house fell when Suarez slammed the door, locking them in. The boy began to rebuild the house again, but it fell once more. Finally, with a moan of frustration, he knocked the twigs away and buried his face against his arm.
He did not cry, though, and his silence was more chilling than any scream.
The boy was Jake Hollins.
SEVENTEEN
Tomlinson was saying "You know why I like traveling with you, Doc? Because you steer clear of all that tourist-trap stuff. No Days Inns or Ramadas for you, man. Places you go, a guy doesn't have to worry about that troublesome holiday traffic." His voice slightly higher with a nervous edge, Tomlinson was frightened and had to talk.
They had found a space on the ground as close as they could to the boy without making it obvious that they had an interest in him. Outside the temperature was probably 84 degrees with a cool breeze from the mountains. Inside the fiberglass hut, though, it was like a sauna, and Ford's cotton shirt and pants were already soaked. If the heat was bad, the stink was worse, plus there were the flies.
Now Tomlinson was trying to be funny.
"Then there's all the interesting people we've met, and now you even found us a place to stay for free." He patted the ground like it was a pillow. "Don't think I don't see the wisdom in a vacation like this. Nothing shakes off those nine-to-five blahs like a good dose of hepatitis."
Ford was watching the boy, studying him out of the corner of his eye. Physically, Jake Hollins was a mess. His long brown hair hung matted over a grimy face, and his Miami Dolphins T-shirt was as mud-caked as his jeans. He had shown some interest when he heard them speaking English, turning toward them with a face that emanated a glow as brief as a firefly's, an expression of pure hope. But he had quickly withdrawn again, sliding down into a curious sitting fetal position, rocking back and forth as Ford had seen blind invalids rock. The boy had wanted the face of his father, not the stares of more strangers.
Now Jake Hollins didn't seemed to hear them at all; seemed, in fact, oblivious to everything around him. After ten or twelve days in this hellhole, Ford guessed, oblivion would be a welcome escape. Especially for a sick child—the boy clearly had a bad case of dysentery, judging from the mess around him. He looked feverish, too, staring out from dark eyesockets like an animal peering from a cave. It was the one painful ingredient in the whole initiative that Ford hadn't anticipated: They couldn't tell the boy they had come to help him. Not right away, anyway, not until Ford was convinced Zacul or Suarez hadn't planted an observer inside the jail. They couldn't take the chance of Zacul discovering that the child's life was a potential bargaining tool. And, from the look of him, Jake Hollins might not last much longer without some word of hope.
Ford took a deep breath, sighing, and Tomlinson seemed to pick up on what he was thinking, saying "I wish there was someone else in this dump who spoke English. No offense, Doc, but you haven't exactly been a joy to talk with lately."
The boy just sat there, still rocking. Didn't even look up.
Ford slid closer to the boy as he pretended to stretch. Then he began to collect the twigs Jake had been playing with, taking care to keep the pile right in front of the boy. Tomlinson said, "See, Doc, you've got the advantage here. Conversationally speaking, I mean. You can speak Spanish, so you can talk to anybody you want. But me, I don't speak anything but English, so I've got no one else to talk to."
The boy still did not react.
Ford began to lay the foundation of the house. But he laid it out crooked so that the next level of twigs didn't quit fit, and the next level fell.
Tomlinson said, "You aren't much at building boats either."
Ford said, "It's a house," as he began to lay the crooked foundation again.
Then someone else spoke, a soft voice from halfway down the room saying "You are Americans, no?" Leaning forward to make himself known was a slightly built man sitting in white underwear and covered with mud, but with a formal expression on his face, as if he were at a cocktail party and about to make introductions. "I hope you do not mind that I try my English on you, but lately—" He shrugged, oddly embarrassed. "I so seldom get the chance to be using it."
"We're Americans," Ford said.
"Ah, yes, I thought so by your accents."
Tomlinson said, "Not that it makes any difference around here. General Zacul seems to treat all prisoners as equals."
The man shook his arm and the chain made a rattling noise in the dusky light. "Not completely equal. You are to be here only a short time. Me, I have been here for ..." He stared at the ceiling as he calculated. "I have been here for nearly a month. Perhaps longer. They would have chained you if you were to be here like the rest of us. Since the floor is earth, they are afraid we will dig out."
"You're considered criminals, then. That's why you're here?" Glad for the diversion the man was creating, Ford got to the third level of the house before the twigs fell this time. Once again he started to rebuild on a crooked foundation.
"Oh, yes. Every person here has committed a crime. We are all very desperate criminals." The man sounded so weary that the sarcasm in his voice wasn't easy to read, but it was there. "The person sitting across from me, his name is Fredrico. Fredrico's crime is that he sold some vegetables to a group of government troops. Fredrico has been here even longer than I. Two months, he says. And that boy sitting by the door, his name is Jesus. Jesus is not yet eighteen years old, and his crime is that he refused the attentions of one of General Zacul's advisors, a Cuban officer named Arevilio. When Jesus's parents learned that a man tried to take their son to bed, they naturally contacted the authorities. For their crime, they were murdered. For his crime, Jesus was brought here. Someday Zacul or Arevilio or one of the other officers will come and seduce the boy again, for it is their way. Until that time, he will stay here chained with us. Or they will take him to the little wooden shed near the cliff to await execution." '