“When we find her, I’ll let you tell her.”
I liked the way she said that. The confidence in her voice.
I said, “And your children, they should know about their grandfather. Maybe your husband when you marry. But if you leave here in a huff and run to the newspapers crying about how your government lied to you about the death of your father, then I’ll disappear from the picture. That’s the silence I’m asking you to respect.”
Another long, thoughtful pause. “You’re sure about this? Were you there when my father was killed?”
“No. I learned of it two, maybe three, days later. Some of the Phmong told me, the mountain warriors. They had tremendous respect for your father.”
“They’re the ones who brought back his body?”
I could have said, “What was left of it.” Instead, I said, “He was killed in a mortar attack. Yes. They were there and brought him back. It happened not too far from our camp.”
“If you weren’t there, then how do you know what they said is true?”
I could have said that I saw the hand, the foot, the flesh detritus of what remained. Instead, I said, “They would have lied to protect your father, but they had no reason to lie. With your father gone, they had no one they needed to protect. So why make up stories?”
She was asking some pretty good questions. Not suspicious, but careful-checking up on this and that to let me know she was keeping track.
“Something else you said, it bothers me. Not that I don’t believe what you’re saying, I’m just trying to be clear. The business about his being an intelligence officer. In every picture of him, he’s wearing a Navy uniform, but now you’re telling me he was like some kind of CIA person. What were you guys, spies?”
“I was what I am now, a marine biologist. Your father was with Naval Special Warfare, the SEALs, and attached to Naval Intelligence. He was a very gifted man. We became close friends quickly. Bobby was smart, funny, tough… a good person; a good guy. He had a photograph of you, a Polaroid, that he loved. At night, just sitting, talking, he’d bring out this picture and pass it around. We had Coleman lanterns for light. It was you in a yellow party dress.”
I thought that would please her. Instead she seemed momentarily flustered. “You mean a picture of when I was an infant.”
“Uh-uh. You were four, maybe five, years old. There were a couple of people in the background, maybe your mother.”
“Oh, that old.” She had her face turned away, looking out the window. Then I realized what the problem was: seeing the photograph meant that I had seen her before a surgeon had straightened her wandering eye. I knew what she had once looked like… probably what, in her own mind, she was supposed to look like… and the fact that I knew made her uneasy.
So I decided to confront the subject: “I remember telling your father that you had a wonderfully wise face. I loved your eyes.”
“You said that?”
“I did.”
Which earned me a snort of cynical laughter. “You’re telling me… you’re saying that you liked the fact that I was cross-eyed? I’m supposed to believe that? Maybe you have us confused. My mom’s the one with the gorgeous eyes.”
“Nope, I liked yours. A lot.”
“I’m supposed to believe that, just like I’m supposed to believe that the reason you were with my dad in Cambodia was because you were a marine biologist? Jesus.”
“Both true.”
“I’m sure.” Her tone said: bullshit.
“Cambodia’s on the Gulf of Thailand. There’s a species of fish there, the ox-eye tarpon that I was studying. There are only two species of tarpon on earth. And there are some interesting islands off a place called Saom Bay. Rain forest and thatched huts built on poles. Every afternoon at sunset, these giant fruit bats would drop down out of the high trees. When they extended their wings, you’d hear a popping sound, like parachutes opening. That’s how big they were.”
“You sound so reasonable.”
“I try to be. I was associated with a thing called the Studies and Observations Group.”
“I bet.”
“That happens to be the truth, too.”
“Oh yeah? So, if you worked near the ocean, then how did my father happen to be in the mountains when he was killed in a mortar attack? You said it didn’t happen too far from camp. You remember saying that?”
Smart woman. Not looking around at the boats now; was looking right at me, showing me with her expression that she wasn’t a child and she wasn’t a fool. Not angry, but stony; chilly and a little judgmental.
I said, “Not all mountains are inland. Some rise out of the sea.”
“And that’s where you’re saying your camp was.”
I thought about it a moment before I replied. “I guess if you were applying the thirty-second rule I’d be in big trouble, huh?”
“Unless you come up with something convincing in the next five or ten seconds. But yeah, it would have to happen pretty quick.”
“What I told you… it’s true, like I said. Factual, anyway. But it’s not entirely honest.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Fact only requires accuracy. Honesty requires disclosure.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Except the part about the Studies and Observations Group. And your eyes. The way you looked in that photograph, very wise for a little girl. I really did like your eyes. And they weren’t crossed, just off center.”
She said, “Uh-huh, a thing of beauty,” her tone saying once again: bullshit.
Her little white Honda Civic was parked in the feather-duster shade of a coconut palm. She said it got great mileage and had a decent sound system.
Two necessities of Generation X: music and considerations of mobility.
As I escorted her across the dusty parking lot, I told her to give me a few days; time to check with some people, think it over, maybe come up with a simple and productive course of action.
“What we might have to do is hop on a plane, fly to Cartagena and have a look around,” I said, “but let’s hope I can fit a few pieces together and narrow down the options.”
My saying it-we may have to fly to Cartagena-seemed to make the prospect real, and I could tell that it set her back a little. “Colombia,” she said, her tone a little less vivid. “That’s like one of the drug countries, right? Do you know anything about the place?”
“Some,” I said. “A little.”
The less she knew about my years in Central and South America, the better.
Something else I told her to keep in mind was, If we did find her mom, and if Gail still refused to leave Merlot, there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.
“I know, I know,” she replied. “All I want is a chance to get her alone and talk some sense into her. If we go, I can cover our expenses. I’ve got some money in savings and there’re some bonds I can cash in. Plus, Frank’s offered to kick in if things get expensive. The big spender, he’s so damn worried. Right. “She let that settle before she added, “The point being, I’m not asking you to pay your own way.”
I told Amanda that her offer was premature. What I didn’t tell her was that, if we could find Merlot’s sailboat, I didn’t think I’d have much trouble prying her mother free. Not if it seemed like the right thing to do.
Probably wouldn’t have to do much more than scare Merlot a little. Get the guy off alone for an hour or so, tell him some tough-guy story about Gail having family ties to the mob. Or maybe say she had ties to some drug cartel; that would make more sense. And how she doesn’t even know it, but she’s under the personal protection of some honcho with an Italian or Latino name. Watch the guy, Merlot, turn white and start shaking, then sit back and wait while he raced off to tell Gail to leave him alone, get the hell out of his life forever. Sneaky predatory types are also usually very predictable cowards.
The problem was, finding a lone sailboat with all that coastline, all that water.