“A pattern.”
“Pattern?” Keyes asked.
“Yes.” On camera, I watched the federal agents begin their approach. One of the agents, I recognized. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Within a minute, I knew that Agent Flores would be one of the first to storm the warehouse. I said, “The movement of the tracker is going in a figure-eight pattern. It’s making a repeat loop.”
“Maybe they’re moving the body,” Keyes said, “probably getting ready to load it into that refrigerated truck for shipment to the port or airport.”
“Try railroad,” I said.
“What?” Keyes asked.
I pointed to the screen and said, “That’s a slow figure-eight pattern, like something you’d see with a model train. That old warehouse was used to store and ship bananas. Maybe some were imported from Colombia. Gonzales is orchestrating a bizarre and deadly game. ”
“What the fuck are you talking about O’Brien?” Keyes shouted.
Dave said, “Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the novelist. Sean sees more than a pattern in the movement of the tracker. We’ve profiled Pablo Gonzales, and we believe his psychosis is so delusional, Gonzales thinks he possesses some divine mandate to eliminate anyone who he believes repeats the sins of his or her forefathers.”
“Call back your agents,” I said.
Keyes said, “I’m going to need more than some half-baked profile to issue that directive.”
“Then you’ll see a lot of your agents die,” I said.
Jenkins squinted, staring at the screen. “I do see the tracker’s repeating its movement, maybe there’s something to this, Dan.”
Agent Keyes opened his cell and punched numbers. “Use extreme caution approaching the building. There’s reason to believe you could be walking into a trap.” He listened some more and shook his head. “No, proceed with the take down.”
“You’re making a mistake,” I said. “Toss in tear gas before you send in the troops.”
“I don’t recall you graduating from Quantico, O’Brien.’’
Dave said, “He went to tougher schools.”
I said nothing. The split-screen on Dave’s computer showed more than two dozen agents approaching the building from all corners. I watched as seven agents, including Agent Flores stood at an entrance door to the warehouse, pistols drawn, and dark bullet-proof vests riding on chests, FBI white letters on black T-shirts. Two of the agents held sub-machine guns.
“I’m putting them on speakerphone,” Agent Keyes said.
“We’re going in,” said the tinny voice of Agent Flores through the cell speaker.
Within seconds, all seven agents were in the warehouse. More stood at all exits. There was a long pause of white noise, as if the speaker phone was transmitting from the bottom of a cave. “Clear!” came distant shouts, and then Agent Flores was back on the line. “Place is vacant. You’re not going to believe this,” she said, amusement in her voice, “there’s a model train on tracks going from one end of the building to the other.”
I glanced down at Dave. He cocked an eyebrow and lifted his eyes up to Agent Keyes. Keyes spoke into the cell. “Then where’s the GPS tracker?”
“Somewhere on the train, I assume,” said Agent Flores. “Jake’s stopping the train to look in the caboose.”
“No!” I shouted.
“O’Brien, you’re a little over—”
“Get them out of there! Send in the bomb squad.”
“What’d he say?” asked Flores.
“Where’s Jake?” Agent Keyes asked.
“He just turned off the power to the damn train. Gary’s checking the cars on the track beginning with the caboo—”
His voice was gone. Flattened by the roar of the explosion. I stared at the computer monitor as the warehouse disappeared. The screen became a bright flash of white light before the cameras captured a massive ball of orange flames roaring up against the cloudless, blue sky.
NINETY-EIGHT
Two days later, forensics investigators were still picking body parts out of the trees and power lines surrounding the warehouse. Nine agents died. Four others lay critically injured in hospitals. The body of Izzy Gonzales was still MIA, and his uncle, Pablo Gonzales, left no clues behind. It was as if he and his operation never existed.
I walked Elizabeth down L dock to the parking lot and to her car. She’s stowed her belongings into a single brown suitcase that I had given her. As she opened the trunk, she turned to me. “I don’t like leaving you here. I feel as if I’m abandoning you.”
“You’re not abandoning me. You’re saving a place for me when this is over.”
“Will it ever be over?”
“Yes. Listen carefully to me, Elizabeth. Go to Cedar Key. Follow the map I gave you. Remember to take the back roads, check your rearview mirror every few minutes. If you even have a hint that anyone is following you, call me. Here are the keys to the boat at the Cedar Key Municipal Marina. Boat’s called Sovereignty. Electricity and plumbing are on, but you’ll have to buy some groceries. Stay there. I’ll call you to let you know what’s going on and when I can join you. If I’m lucky, we’ll bring Sovereignty around the Florida Keys and up here to Ponce Marina soon.”
“You saw what Gonzales did to those federal agents. You’re one man. How can one man beat this guy and his army? I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, too.”
I kissed her lips and said, “Go on. I’ll be there. Just believe in that, okay? Don’t dwell on what ifs and those things we can’t control.”
She tried to smile though eyes that welled with tears. “Please be careful, Sean. I dropped down on my knees last night and begged God to watch over you.”
I said nothing as she got in the car, started the engine, bit her bottom lip and slowly drove out of the parking lot. I watched her pull onto Highway AIA and head north. Walking back to Jupiter, the dock master stepped from his office and greeted me. He was a portly man with a flushed, round face, T-shirt hanging over his belly, a stub of a yellow pencil wedged behind his right ear. “Sean, got something for you.”
“What’s that?”
He held out an envelope. “It came for you today. No return address. You don’t get a lot of mail, so I thought this one, with a handwritten address, might be important.”
“Thanks, Darnel.” He handed me the envelope. My name and the marina address were written across the front in near perfect penmanship. The lettering was done in an old-style slant to the letters, the inscription drafted from the hand of an artist.
I walked down the dock toward Jupiter, opening the letter and reading. I knew who’d sent it before I read the first line. The calligraphy was flawless, not unlike his art. I don’t know why, but I read his words aloud.
Dear Sean: I hope this letter finds you well. I appreciate all you tried to do for me. If you have received this, it’s because I’m dead. I had given the envelope to a fellow at a UPS store, and paid him a little money to hold it for a week. If I didn’t return, he was to mail it to you. I thank you for all you tried to do to keep them from railroading me and locking me up for the rest of my life. I wanted to let you know where the money still lies hidden from the time the Barker Gang hid it. It’s buried near the biggest oak tree in the Ocala National Forest. The tree is exactly 1.9 miles due west from the head, the boil, of Alexander Spring. The money is on the south side of the tree, under a huge limb. There’s a slab of granite rock marking the spot. Take the money, you’ve earned it, and do something good with it. Maybe it’s carrying a curse, I don’t know. It was good knowing you. If heaven’s bus hadn’t pulled up, I would like to have gone fishing with you. But something tells me you’re the catch and release kind of guy, and I suppose that’s ok, too.