I’d sent the paper along with a note from me that read:
During these screwy times, everyone in the world should be prepared, and they should damn well know that: • During a hijacking or hostage assault, the most dangerous phases are the first few minutes and-if there is a rescue attempt-the final few minutes. Anticipate what you should do before it happens so that you won’t panic if it happens. • In the first minutes, terrorists are adrenaline-fogged and prone to irrational overreaction. This is when most hostages die. Remain calm. Avoid eye contact. No sudden, threatening movements. • Do not struggle or try to escape unless success or your own death are certain. • Aspire to be inconspicuous. Do not give your captors the impression that you are memorizing their facial features or keeping note of their actions. • Talk normally. Don’t complain, don’t show anger. Follow all orders and instructions. • If questioned, keep your answers short. Don’t stand out. • If involved in a lengthy hostage situation, the opposite becomes true. It’s easier to kill an object than a human being. Make sure your captors know your name, the names of your family members. Establish a rapport. • Remember that you are a valuable commodity to your captors. It’s important to them to keep you alive and well. Find a way to survive. Others have. You can, too.
All good advice. The kind that can save a life or lives. Trouble was, I knew there was a possibility that Lake hadn’t even read the damn thing. He’d certainly never made any specific references to the data in a reply e-mail.
Boys his age are bulletproof. Or think they are.
But maybe, just maybe, it’d helped him.
Even so, I was immensely thankful that I’d made the effort. Thankful because it took a bit of the sting out of the overwhelming guilt I felt. It was guilt that any parent would have experienced.
My child had been taken. Even though I’d anticipated the possibility, I wasn’t there to protect him when it happened.
Unforgivable.
It’s guilt that destroys us -one of Tomlinson’s favorite sayings.
Pilar felt the guilt, too. Of that, I was certain. And for good reason.
When I’d sent my warnings to Lake, I’d sent the same warnings to her. Our son was an obvious, high-risk target. Serious measures needed to be taken.
She’d never responded.
I’d yet to mention that to her.
I never would.
Oh yeah, she was feeling it.
Pilar pressed a blinding hand over her eyes, moaned softly, and then I listened to her say, “I’m so sorry, Marion. It never crossed my mind that a noise in the background could be important.”
The bird call. She was still punishing herself for not zeroing in on the quetzal.
She added, “That morning, while I was watching this awful thing, Laken was just a few miles away? We could have sent in soldiers and saved him. Oh dear God. I feel terrible I didn’t understand…”
Tomlinson reached and put his big hand to her shoulder, communicating with touch- Don’t blame yourself. Victims should never blame themselves -but stuck to business, saying, “O.K., O.K. We’re done with the subject. There’s nothing more to learn from background noise. Let’s discuss other elements in the video.”
He watched me nod before saying, “So far, we both agree that Lourdes videoed this by himself. But I’m still thinking he had to have one or more accomplices.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the way Pilar describes it, your son was kidnapped from a place that’s downtown in a busy city. And from a building that was guarded. There almost had to be a driver. Don’t you think? Or a chopper maybe. Someone waiting to get away fast.”
I said, “O. K, I’ll go along with that.”
He turned to Pilar. “Do private planes fly in and out of the international airport?”
“Yes. Of course.”
I was looking at the moth on the screen, comparing it with photos in the book. The insect’s wingspan was massive-more than six inches. Finally, I found it: Ascalapha odorata, the Bruja Negra or Black Witch moth. An insect common to Central America-further confirmation that the video had been shot in the region.
I said, “That’s what I’m asking myself. Why would someone kidnap the son of a popular political figure, then head straight for a hideout close to the airport?”
Tomlinson was now allowing the video to play in slow motion-an eerie thing to watch-as he asked, “Does your ex-husband have enough political juice in neighboring countries to get passports for Lourdes and your son? Visas, I.D. s? I’m talking about credentials good enough so they could hop on a private plane and take refuge in another country. No way you can fly a kidnapped child out on a commercial plane, so that leaves military or private.”
I leaned close to study my son’s haunted eyes staring back at me, then focused upon the red welt that snaked up his arm. I’d dismissed the possibility of it being a burn. Now, though, I reconsidered.
As Pilar replied, “Yes, documents, passports, Balserio could get anything he wanted,” I looked across my laboratory sink at the Bunsen burner. I pictured the scalpel-blue flame it produced, then reviewed variations of propane torches.
A portable welder’s torch came to mind. They were cheap, easy to use, readily available even in Third World countries, and intimidating if used as a weapon-something that would appeal to a sociopath who liked fire.
I remembered Pilar saying that the fish in Lake’s main aquarium had been killed. Stick a welder’s torch in an aquarium, and the swim bladders of fish would soon explode, expanding in the super-heated water.
Son-of-a-bitch.
Lake had been burned. The wound seemed a defensive variety. People under attack throw their forearms up to protect their face.
It told me something that I couldn’t share with Pilar, and would not share with Tomlinson. That brand of assault is indicative. If Praxcedes Lourdes had already burned Lake, then he planned to kill him. That seemed probable to me.
What was the statistic I’d read? It had been compiled by some government agency in Britain. In kidnapping cases worldwide, only about forty percent of the victims are recovered alive even after the ransom is paid in full. If the victim has been seriously abused or mistreated-severed ears or pinkie fingers are common examples-then chances of the abductee surviving drops to nearly zero.
Paying Lake’s ransom, following his kidnapper’s orders, made sense only in that it might buy us a little time.
I jumped, startled that anyone could speak calmly when Tomlinson said, “As long as we have the computer out, maybe you should check your e-mail. They said you should check it often.”
Pilar still sounded despondent. “You’re probably right. I tried from my hotel last night, then again this morning. So far, nothing. I need to buy a laptop while I’m here. I don’t have one.”
I pointed to my desk model on the far side of the room. “You can use mine, or we can hook Tomlinson’s up to the phone. His’ll be faster.”
We did. She checked.
She had an e-mail from the kidnappers. There was also a note from our son.
Sitting at the computer, nervously regarding what she was about to read, Pilar said, “When Jorge Balserio is back in the presidential palace-and he probably will be, unfortunately-he’ll owe that animal a debt more than favors and money. I wonder how he’ll deal with his famous monster then?”
She was talking, once again, about the possibility that Balserio had provided passports and a private plane. She was also talking about the man who’d abducted our son.
I was picturing the burn scar on Lake’s arm, my child’s terrified eyes staring back into mine, and I was thinking: If Balserio’s smart, he’ll kill Lourdes.
But I was also thinking: If I get to Lourdes first, he’ll never have the chance.