But the idea of being wanted for murder was about the worst thing I'd ever felt, Doc. I'm not kidding. It made me want to run around in circles and bang into trees. Like some kind of animal being hunted. I wanted to vomit. So I got the idea of trying to make it look like an accident. I drug that guy's body all over the place, trying to make it look like he'd fallen or hit his head on a rock or something. But it just didn't work. Shit, there's noplace to fall on that island and no rocks to hit—it's all shell.
"Then I got the idea of making it look like he'd killed himself. That seemed like the best idea. Even if I ended up in court, there were no witnesses and the jury would have to go by what the cops found. So I got a rope, and you know what I did with that. The dead guy looked like he'd come straight from the big city, so I tied bad knots like he'd probably tie and did a bunch of other stuff, trying to make it just right. But then it crossed my mind they'd do an autopsy and find out the guy had died from getting hit in the head and that just ruined everything. Right back to square one. I was about ready to cry by that time.
"So I left the guy hanging up there; took the boat and just went. God, I've never spent a night like that in my life. I holed up in a tidal creek under the mangroves, expecting police choppers to start buzzing me any minute. It was like I was crazy. I couldn't stop . . . stop crying. I spent all night in that boat, trying to figure out what to do, and it seemed like the best thing was to just hide the body and try to pretend like it never happened. By the time I got back to the island, though, the vultures had already been at this guy and his face was about gone. That's when it hit me. All my problems solved at once. They don't hunt a guy for kidnap and murder if he's already dead. The guy was about my size, had my hair, but wore clothes like I'd never wear. I swear to God, that was the worst part. Changing clothes with that corpse. It still gives me the shivers."
Ford said, "You told DeArmand if he'd push the body past the coroner, you'd give him a confession about the insecticide?
"Right. That was the risk. Turned out, it wasn't much of a risk. I snuck over to the mainland that night and got DeArmand alone. He didn't give a damn about the guy I'd killed—he was just some Marielito from Miami, a professional killer. But the twenty grand would have come out of DeArmand's pocket. So that was the deal. I signed the paper and DeArmand would see to it this guy went to the grave as me, no questions asked. No money, but I got my freedom. And I'd planned on living with Jake in Costa Rica anyway."
Hollins cleared his throat uncomfortably and added, "I wanted to stay on the island and wait for you, Doc. I almost did. But I was still panicky and you always were kind of a stickler for the law. I figured I'd just head down to Masagua alone and try to get Jake out by myself, but when I got back to the island the emeralds were gone. Shit, I had no money and no emeralds— nothing to trade. I woulda called you that night, but I knew the marina was closed. Then I figured the best thing to do was just sneak in and see you in person. But, by then, it was Tuesday night and you were already gone."
Ford said, "Zacul didn't want the emeralds. He wanted the book you stole."
Hollins sat up. "He wanted the what?"
Ford did not repeat himself; just stood looking at the man, watching it sink in.
Hollins said, "Christ, I gave that to Rouchard to auction off. I didn't think it was worth more than a couple hundred bucks. You're serious? And I thought it was the damn emeralds! That's why I broke into your house. They didn't mean money to me, they meant getting my little boy back. And I was beginning to think you were dead."
Ford looked at Jessica. She was leaning against the screen door, one hip thrown out, her copper hair hanging over the left side of her face. He said, "And you're the woman I could tell everything."
She made an open-handed gesture, as if pleading guilty. "Nice little trap, Ford. But don't you get a little nervous setting traps for people who love you? I mean, you're the one who gets hurt if the traps work."
Hollins reacted to that, glaring at Jessica. "Hey, wait a ininute—you just told me you two were friends." He turned to Ford. "I swear to God, this girl didn't tell me that you and she were—"
"We're not." Ford was standing up, finding it hard to look at either one of them. "Rafe, you come over to my place in the morning and we'll talk about your son."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I can't just come out in broad daylight. I've been camping over on Chino Island so no one would see me. Jessica's been bringing me food and stuff until you got back. About her and me, I had no damn idea that you two were . . . and I hardly even knew her until about four days ago when Rouchard said—" He was stammering over a tough subject and making it tougher, so Jessica finished, "When Benny told him that any friend of his gets anything he wants from Jessica McClure. Right, Hollins?"
Rafe groaned. "Doc, I feel like a real shit about this. After all you've done for me. "
Ford was already walking away. "Stop by in the morning, Rafe. You don't have to hide anymore. They couldn't prove you were murdered; they can't prove the Marielito was murdered. All the evidence is gone."
"But I'm supposed to be dead."
"You were out of the country with your son and returned to discover a terrible injustice had been done. You are shocked some stranger was mistaken for you."
"I left that stupid note—"
"I have the note, and I've already forgotten about it."
"And my wallet was on him."
"You mean the wallet was stolen? The Marielito died with a guilty conscience."
"But DeArmand knows—"
"DeArmand has his own problems to worry about. So does your ex-wife."
"They'll get me for kidnapping. "
Ford stopped and turned toward him. "Right—and gun running. You're going to have to face up to that anyway. Good fathers don't keep their kids hiding from the law, Rafe. And you're going to be a good father. A very damn good father. Or I'll unravel your story like a cheap sweater and make sure you lose the boy."
Hollins's head was down and he said softly, "I guess I have that coming. Maybe I do. But Doc—" He looked at Ford, a steely look. "—don't ever threaten to take Jake away from me again."
Ford said, "You keep your part of the bargain and I won't."
Ford could hear Jessica's footsteps in the sand; could feel her following him through the disc of porch light to his bike. He turned and she came closer to him, still holding the robe with one hand, but holding something else in the other. She said, "You might as well take this with you"—handing him a framed canvas—"since you probably won't be coming by again." Not sounding cold now, just weary.
Ford held the canvas out to the light and saw that she had finished the painting: a man with glasses and a firm expression wading the brass flats. It was Ford's face, but she had idealized it; softened the rough features and added virtues he had never seen in the mirror.
She said, "That's the way I see you." And they both looked at the painting in a growing silence, then Jessica said in a rush, "Doc, Rouchard has videos of me."
"Oh?"
"You don't want to hear it, do you?"
"I thought it might be something like that."
"I'm just trying to tell you why you saw what you saw—"
"You don't owe me an explanation."
"No, but you owe me the chance to offer, damn it." She was angry and close to tears, too. "That time in Greenwich Village, with the drugs and all. Well, it was a little bit worse than I told you. No, it was a lot worse. The drugs, mostly. Then I went to work for the marketing company in New York—"
"Seaboard Marketing. Unlimited."
She turned away from him, her hair swinging. "I don't even know why I bother. I should have known you'd already checked out every little detail. God, I feel like a fool."