Guardian of Lies

Herman slows down. “What the hell is that?” He lifts his nose and sniffs the air a little. This takes him in the direction of the gate.

“I don’t smell anything.”

“Put your nose over here,” he says.

I do. The second I get near the wrought-iron bars I pick up the odor.

“It’s stronger down here,” says Herman.

He is right. Down near the tile floor in the entry behind the gate the heavy vapor is actually visible.

?It?s propane,? says Herman.

By now several of the women on the sidewalk are looking at us, wondering what?s happening.

Herman turns to them. ?zApaguen sus cigarrillos! Hay gas. Es peligroso.?

They stand there looking at him.

?Peligroso. It?s dangerous. Put out your cigarettes. Go! Ir. zCorren?Escapen!? Herman starts waving his arms at them. They begin backing away, more frightened by Herman than what he is saying.

Herman is trying to dig his pick set out of his pocket.

I reach through the bars and try the little lever on the inside knowing it will be locked. Instead the lever snaps down and the gate swings open.

“It wasn’t locked,” I say.

I charge through the open gate and try the front door. The same result. Whoever left last didn’t lock up.

As the door swings open, we get the full effect as vapors of propane wash out through the open portal like a wave. I wade into the house trying to hold my breath, Herman right behind me. I trip over something, knock it over, and then kick it against the wall in trying to keep my balance. It’s a suitcase.

With my hand over my mouth and nose, eyes watering, I feel my way past the entry to the living room. I glance to my right. I see the dining room and the kitchen beyond. There is a set of stairs going up just inside the dining room.

“You check down. I’ll go up,” says Herman. He is coughing as he bounds up the steps two at a time.

Just inside the kitchen door I see the body on the floor, something over her face. I reach the stove. I can tell that this is the point of the emission. The vapors here are overpowering.

As if in a dream state I hear the pounding of heavy footfalls on the wooden floor overhead. Herman is either wrestling with someone or checking the rooms. I can’t tell.

I try turning the knobs on the stove, thinking she must have left one of them open. But even with my eyes watering I can see that they are all turned off.

I reach down and pull the cloth from her face, grip her under the arms, and lift her until she is vertical, like a limp rag held out in front of me. I get a glimpse of her face. I don’t have to ask to know who she is. The resemblance to Katia is uncanny. Holding her steady, I sweep one arm under her legs at the knees and lift her into my arms.

She is not heavy. Still, I am staggering, unable to stand, fighting for breath. It is all I can do to hold her up. Putting one foot in front of the other, retracing my steps toward the door is impossible.

I take one step, then another. Like a dark night it envelops me. I have only the slightest sensation, the feeling that I am weightless as my head hits the edge of the countertop on the way down, and then nothing.

“So how the hell did they get out without being seen?” The lead agent, the one packing the papers is angry.

“I don’t know,” said the other agent.

Madriani’s room was empty. No clothes in the closet, no luggage, and nothing in the bathroom. Now they find the same thing in his friend’s room.

“These are the right rooms?”

“Si, senor.? One of the hotel employees is still holding the passkey in his hand after letting them in.

The beds had been slept in, but it was as if they had checked out. However, the girl at the front desk told the Costa Rican police that the two men were still registered.

“So who tipped them off?” said the lead agent.

“You got me,” said the other one.

“Have your men search every room. They’ve got to be in the hotel somewhere. They couldn’t have gotten out.” The lead agent was now giving orders to the police. The lieutenant in charge wasn’t sure about this.

“Un momento.” He stopped one of his subordinates before the man could get out of the room. “I am not sure that we have the authority to disturb the other guests. I am going to have to check with my superiors. You are certain that they were here in the hotel this morning, and that they stayed here last night?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” The agent was now turning his venom on the Costa Rican cop. Unless Madriani and his man were hiding out in a supply closet in the hotel, he was going to have to explain to Thorpe in Washington how the two men, one of them the size of a small mountain, had slipped through the net unseen.

“Lieutenant, can you call the airport? Make sure that he doesn’t catch a flight out of the country?”

“If you can supply me with his passport number, I will see what I can do.”

“It’s in the file, in the car,” said the other agent.

“Why don’t you go get it?” said the lead agent.

“What’s this?” said the other agent. He was holding a small brass grid in his hand, a metal cover for a heat or air-conditioning register.

“Where did you get that?” said the lead agent.

“It was under the sheet on top of the bed.”

The FBI agent started searching the floor with his eyes, looking for an open heat register.

?Senor.? The lieutenant gestured toward an area high on the wall above the polished hardwood headboard and the pillows. There was an open rectangular air duct about six feet above the bed.

The lieutenant reached over and drew his fingers across the polished dark wood of the headboard, leaving a clear track in the dusting of white plaster left from the screw holes drilled by whoever had removed the grill from the register. “It looks as if they were hiding something. Perhaps they knew you were here.”

As he said it there was just the slightest motion, as if someone gently rocked the room. It was almost imperceptible. You might not have noticed except that when it stopped, the small chandelier overhead was swaying. A second later the shock wave jingled the dangling glass crystals of the fixture.

FORTY-FIVE

They had it all wrong. Colombian coffee was all right, but the best-flavored coffee in the world came from Costa Rica. For Liquida’s money, compared with fresh-roasted Costa Rican consumed on the spot, the stuff at Starbucks sucked.

He was savoring a cup and nibbling on a pastry, what the girl behind the counter of the little coffee shop called “Fruitas,” when the mushrooming fireball reflected off the windows of the Hospital