Tomlinson was still working on my arm, cleaning the wound. At his side was a basin of hot water and a white washcloth that was already rusty with blood. He’d washed the wound with water and Betadine, then had to go door-to-door to find a roll of gauze, antibacterial creme, and surgical tape for a dressing.
He’d returned with the first-aid supplies and some information, too. “The two women, they’ve already talked to the cops by phone, so it’s probably not a good idea for you to ask them to change their story. Vince up at the Inn told me. They’re sending a boat over to pick them up. Bring the cops out to the island, I mean.”
“You didn’t mention to Vince that-”
“Hey man, you don’t need to tell me; I’ve been breaking laws all my life. I know how to keep my mouth shut. Something else he told me, the woman you saved? The blonde. She was probably the main target. Turns out she’s some rich guy’s daughter. Lindsey Harrington, that’s her name. The other woman, the dark-haired one, she’s either a friend of the family or works for the family, Vince wasn’t sure. Maybe a bodyguard. He’s wondered about that before. But lots and lots of new money.”
It was no surprise that at least one of the women came from money. Everyone on the island had money. The thing that struck me about the attempted kidnapping, though, was that it had an administrative feel to it, the way it was set up, the two-boat backup plan, they way they’d obviously invested some time and tracked her movements before trying to snatch her. Money, of course that would be a part of it. Always is. But it seemed probable that there was more to it than that.
To Tomlinson, I said, “I didn’t hear them say much, but one of them had a Colombian accent. That I’m sure of. If all you’re after is ransom money, why make it more complicated by picking a target outside your native country?”
“Maybe they live in the States now. Were looking to score big and decided on Guava Key. This place is very famous, man-for the same reason you didn’t want to come in the first place. The guys from AC/DC, Mick Jagger, that former vice president-lots of very heavy hitters come here.”
“I know, I know, but it still doesn’t seem like a natural fit. People tend to choose crimes the same way they choose a place to live. The surroundings need to be comfortable, well known, usually in an area where it’s easy to interact without standing out. The desperate ones rob the restaurants where they used to work, kidnap the children of people they know. See what I mean? What happened this afternoon was more like international politics.”
He said, “See? Now that makes sense. Politics, that’s just what Vince told me. He knows the girl’s father. They play tennis together, fish occasionally when he comes to the island, which isn’t often. He’s got some kind of government appointment, like an ambassador’s deputy or something. One of those things that takes a big political donation to buy. Only Vince thought it was Peru, not Colombia.”
“Both countries have their problems,” I said, “so the political component, that’s a possibility.”
“But that’s not where the girl lives. He said she’s always been sort of on her own, allowed to run wild, ’cause her mother was killed in an accident way, way back, and she’s spent most of her life at boarding schools. Last couple of years, though, Vince says she’s been driving her dad nuts, some of the stuff she’s been doing. Drinking, speeding tickets, political protests, that sort of thing. Whatever her dad’s for, she’s against. Kids, huh? Then she got involved in drugs, cocaine, crack. The serious amateur shit. Ended up in rehab, dropped off the screen for nearly a year. They sent her here as a kind of halfway-house deal.”
Something else that the island’s manager told Tomlinson was that the media were already calling. Already sending reporters and TV trucks to the ferry landing on the mainland. Not good news for me, but not unexpected from the way local law enforcement was reacting. For the last hour, I’d been hearing choppers, seeing their spotlights pan through trees in tubular columns of white.
Old familiar sounds. An old, familiar sight.
Tomlinson patted more blood away; tossed the gauze into the trash. Said, “Move your arm a little closer to the light. I need to get some more Betadine in there or you’re going to end up with an infection.”
The wounds weren’t too bad. Just barnacle scratches on my face. The bullet had skinned a neat little ruby furrow off the underside of my arm. A black-and-green hematoma had already begun to radiate outward toward my biceps.
A very close call, indeed.
Two inches more or less to the left and I’d have been shot through the chest. Maybe through the heart.
It’s something I’ve learned: No matter how secure our lives may seem, day after day, we live by degrees and survive by inches.
Tomlinson asked me, “So how you feeling now? I’ve got those pain pills if you want ’em.”
“Kind of weak and shaky. All that adrenaline, all the emotion-it leaves you feeling like hell. Sick and depressed.”
“Hum-m-m-m. It’s not like you to feel much emotion about anything. Maybe you’re beginning to evolve spiritually. Play your cards right, you could be more like me-an elevated being.”
“If this is what it’s like, you can have it. I feel like I might vomit.”
“Then this is your lucky day,” he said. “I got just the herb for that one, too.”
The man in the gray suit, the one asking most of the questions, said to me, “Do you know anything about the drug cartels in South America? Colombia, I’m talking about. Or maybe a group called the Shining Path?”
He meant Sendero Luminoso, a terrorist organization founded by a Maoist university professor, Abimael Guzman, in Peru’s mountain state of Ayacucho. Sendero had exported murder and mindless violence throughout Latin America. Over the years, in a previous line of work, and in what now seems to be a former life, I’d had more than one run-in with Guzman’s unfortunate prophets.
I said, “The drug cartels, sure. They made a couple of movies about them awhile back, didn’t they? They’re like gangsters, lots of shooting. The other thing you mentioned, though, the Shining something? I don’t think I’ve heard of that, but maybe it’s because I don’t have a TV and I don’t read the papers.”
I was still sitting in the same wicker chair, feet propped up, in the main room of my rental bungalow. Behind me, at the lunch bar, Tomlinson sat listening. Lined before me, on the couch and in a kitchen chair, were two men and a woman, all of them staring at me as if from a panel or court bench. The woman wore a green deputy’s uniform, her leather gunbelt creaking each time she moved. Same with the guy from Florida Marine Patrol, only his uniform was black on gray.
The man in the gray suit said, “The reason I mention the cartels and the Shining Path is because the men who tried to kidnap Ms. Harrington this afternoon could’ve been from either one of those two groups. Or from a half-dozen other terrorist organizations that operate in South America. Tupac Amaru, there’s another example. There’re lots of them.
“We’re not sure yet who they are, but we’ll find out. The point being that Ms. Harrington’s father apparently does have some political influence in that region, so he’s bound to have powerful enemies. They’re not going to like the idea of someone like you screwing up their plans, which is why you need to cooperate with us. You need to tell us the truth, then let us help you.”
To Gray Suit, I said, “I don’t doubt that you mean it-offer me protection, whatever it is you think I need, I believe you. I understand. You don’t have an easy job, I understand that, too. But how can I make it any plainer? I don’t want your help. I didn’t do anything to need it. Or earn it.”
“You keep telling us that, Doctor Ford. So I’m going to try one more time. Maybe speak a little more plainly, lay it all out. Here’s the deal, doctor: You need to drop the act, come clean, and tell us what really happened out there. You don’t have anything to fear from us. We’re on your side, not theirs. I don’t care what you did. You’re the good guy, like the cowboy who came riding in on the white horse. You may have saved a couple of lives today. They’re the bad guys. The kidnappers. Four or five punks against you, and you ran them off. Hell, we’ll try to get you a reward, if you want. Why is that so hard to understand?”