The man was sitting there in the filth, speaking softly, talking about outrages but not sounding outraged, just tired.
Once again Ford's house fell.
The man said, "The man lying near the door, his name is Creno. Creno's crime is that he is a Miskito Indian. Normally, the soldiers of El Dictamen shoot Miskito Indians on sight, for that is the wish of General Zacul. But Creno has not been shot because he apparently saw something that he should not see. What this thing was, Creno has been kind enough not to tell us. But because it is possible that Creno told others about this thing he should not have seen, General Zacul has ordered that he be tortured each day until he talks. Only after talking will he be shot. It is a thing you call irony, no? Normally, one is threatened with death if one does not cooperate. But Creno faces certain death if he does cooperate. So he has endured these many weeks. Three weeks, I think. Yes, more than that. He has been a great inspiration to us. But, as you can see, he cannot last much longer."
Creno was a tiny man with straight black hair who lay naked, face down on the ground. There was a random grid of red welts on his back and buttocks, whip scars, probably. He had not moved since their arrival, just lay there panting in the heat like a wounded animal.
"What about you? What's your crime?" Tomlinson asked.
"My crime is that I am a physician. I could have opened a practice in Masagua City after internship, but I chose instead to spend a year practicing in the rural areas of my country—to pay a debt of respect to my own people. About a month ago this army attacked Pochote, a mountain village they suspected of helping another guerrilla group here, the Masaguan People's Army. Zacul's soldiers burned the village, but that is not the worst thing he did. He assembled the men of Pochote and offered them the chance to join his army. He asked for volunteers, which was Zacul's way of tricking them for, of course, none of the men volunteered. He had burned their village, you see.
"There were forty-three men in that village over the age of fourteen. Zacul and his lieutenants cut the testicles off all forty-three of those men. They stripped the men, tied them with ropes, and used no anesthetic. It took all night. When I arrived two days later, the floor of that place was like a charnel house. It was black with blood. I tell you, when Zacul goes to a village now and asks for volunteers, all the men step forward. That was his intent when he tricked the men of Pochote. I have heard him joke of it."
The doctor continued, "I learned of the atrocity and traveled two hundred miles to help those men. Several had bled to death, two had committed suicide. Those who survived were already badly infected when I arrived, but I had brought medicines and set about trying to treat them as best I could. Several days later I was arrested. Four times they have taken me to a room and beaten me. Each time I am asked to sign a paper which says that
I agree to serve as a medical officer in Zacul's army. I am not a strong man. In fact, my classmates considered me to be a coward. So I was surprised and rather proud that I did not sign that paper during the first torture session. Of course, they did not beat me badly. They are desperately in need of a physician, so I'm sure they treated me more gently than the others you see here, such as Creno. But I began to take strength from the courage of poor Creno and I survived the second beating. Now I have survived four, and it has been three or perhaps four days since either Creno or I have been beaten." The young doctor leaned farther forward, anxious as a child as he said, "You, obviously, are not considered criminals by General Zacul. I will not ask why you are here, but perhaps you have even spoken with the general. Perhaps you know him as a man in some way. Do you think it is possible that he has given up his efforts to force us by torture? Do you think it is possible that we might some day be released?"
Ford was reaching to reconstruct the foundation of the twig house for the seventh time when a small white hand reached out and stopped his. Jake Hollins was staring at the pile of twigs, but watching him peripherally. There was an expression on his face: impatience, Ford decided. As if to say Can't you adults do anything right?
Ford liked the expression on that small, grimy face with its cleft chin; recognized something in the light of those dark-brown, gold-flecked eyes that he had once admired in Rafe's. As Tomlinson and the young doctor continued to talk, he and Jake Hollins began to build the house together.
Ford did not answer the physician's question.
Three A.M., and Ford was whispering, "A boy who lived in Tambor used to bring me sharks' teeth. Hundreds of them, some °f the biggest and best I've ever seen. I finally convinced him I'd still buy the teeth if he showed me where he was finding them. He brought me here."
Both Tomlinson and Ford were lying on their stomachs, gripping the steel stake to which Jake Hollins was chained, trying to twist it free. The stake was driven through the chain, through a heavy grommet built into the fiberglass, then deep into the ground.
The boy was asleep, knees drawn up to his stomach, lying on his side.
Ford said, "The question was obvious: Why so many sharks teeth a half mile from the lake and nearly a mile from the sea? They weren't fossilized; nothing to suggest a prehistoric drop in sealevel. It gave me something to think about, and, believe me, you live alone in a place this remote, you treasure little mysteries like that.
"At about the same time, I met Pilar. While her husband was on a tour of Europe, she had rented a little cabana about a quarter mile from my lab and lived alone. We met on the beach, and gradually—very gradually—became friends. I began to help her in her work, and she began to help me in mine."
"And that's how you fell in love with the Presidente's wife, man. I can see how it could happen."
Ford said, "Balserio wasn't president then but, yeah . . . that's how it happened. Pilar and I had some great talks sitting outside that cabana at night, just the two of us. She was about as desperate for company as I was at first, but then it became more than that. We weren't lovers; not completely, but I guess I was in love with her—as close as I've ever come to being in love, anyway. Twice she said that she loved me, and a woman like that doesn't use the word loosely."
They were twisting the steel rod back and forth, working it like a crossbuck saw, and it was beginning to move. Tomlinson said, "A guy like you, he's got to be in prison before he opens up. I think you ought to consider this a kind of therapy; make it into a positive thing."
"Uh-huh, right. Pilar s the one who told me the story about the Kache, the conquistadors, the calendar, the earthquakes; all of it. The problem she was working on was what happened to the calendar. If the legends were correct, the calendar should have been someplace in the lake. It's a hell of a big lake and it's deep, but it's only really deep toward the middle and, considering all the people who have looked for the calendar, someone should have found it. At that time, Pilar was plotting constellations for the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, doing a lot of complicated math and trying to figure out exactly where the Tlaxclen priests would've had to mount the calendar to reflect the light of a certain major constellation. She had settled on Orion as the constellation because it had seven bright stars and, in Tlaxclen tradition, the last year of the calendar was called the Year of Seven Moons. This event only happened once every fifty-two years—"
"I know, I know," Tomlinson said impatiently. He was sweating, working hard but trying not to look like he was working in case anyone was watching. "Christ, I'm the one who told you."