Sanibel Flats

for one or two other favors, but nothing big. Logistical stuff.'

'How do I know you're not still working for the Company?

Maybe this is a scam so you can get me to help you smoke out my comrades up in the mountains.'

'For one thing, I didn't quit my job. I was asked to resign. I was in Masagua and they decided I was trying to help Juan Rivera more than their puppet Balserio. They were right. Check around if you don't believe me.' Which was a lie, but Ford knew she would never get around to checking.

She considered that for a moment, wanting to believe him, wanting the money. 'My God, the All-American boy helping a communist. Maybe there's hope for the world after all. But so far I haven't heard you mention any advance. Just the promise of money, like I'm supposed to trust your fair bookkeeping.'

'I'll give you . . . five hundred tonight, and send you another thousand if your information turns out to be good.' Standing as he counted out the bills, putting them on the table in a stack in front of her.

She looked at the money, touching her tongue to her lips, as if she were hungry. Ford wondered how much heroin five hundred would buy in Costa Rica. Or cocaine. Yeah, cocaine: no track marks on her arms. In Costa Rica, it would buy a lot of cocaine.

'Do you have a map?' she asked.

'I have several maps. What country?'

'Masagua, of course.'

Ford took out the good topographical map that Herrera had provided and spread it out over the money. She hunched over the map, touching it with her index finger, concentrating. 'Have you ever heard of Julio Zacul?'

'I've heard of him. That's the guy you're worried I might sic the marines on?'

She looked up at him, still thinking of Zacul, a brief look of pure hatred. 'For that bastard, you can call in the marines, the gurkhas, anybody you want. After what he did to me. The bastard. I was worried you were after Rivera.'

'It sounds like you know Zacul pretty well.'

'I should. I lived with him for three months. Followed that son of a bitch everywhere. I did things for him ...' She shivered slightly. 'Things I can't believe I did. Things he made me do. He's sick, Marion. An animal—if you're one of his women, and there aren't too many of those. He prefers your type—or boys.'

Ford felt his stomach turn, one of his boys, not wanting to hear any more but still listening. She went on a quick talking jag, close to losing control, telling him about this man she hated and why until Ford finally took her arm, calming her, and said, 'Show me where he is, Wendy. Point to it on the map.'

She downed the last of her drink, throwing her head back as if it were medicine. 'It's just that I've never been the same since I was with Zacul. Bad things have happened to me. Like a curse. The things he made me do seem like a crazy bad dream now. Like those Mexican girls in the cheap films. The animal.' She was still shaking.

Ford said, 'Then you won't mind making some money off him.'

'No, I won't mind at all. But I'd rather see him dead. When you find him, though, watch yourself. Rafferty flew authentic artifacts out for him, but Zacul sent a lot of fake stuff, too. He has his men make it. The first stuff he offers you will be fake. Just a warning. He'll judge what you know by the way you react to the first stuff he offers.'

'Zacul was the only one Hollins was flying artifacts for?'

'I don't know. How should I know? But probably, yeah. He was the only guerrilla I know who dealt in that sort of thing. On a big-time basis, anyway.'

It didn't take her long to describe how to get to where Zacul was probably camped. Ford knew that section of mountains very, very well. She kept saying Zacul would have her killed if he found out. Ford pumped all the information he could out of her, about the way Zacul arranged his camp, his routine, how best to deal with the man on a business basis, because now he was admitting to himself what he hadn't wanted to admit before: Julio Zacul had Jake Hollins.

As Ford folded the map to go, the woman stood up, swaying slightly, a little drunk, and leaned against the bathroom doorway, her head tilted to one side. 'Do you have to leave so soon?' Trying to look seductive, but looking sad and defeated instead. 'I was going to take a shower. A nice long, hot shower. Maybe you'd like to join me. I can wash your back. You've already paid for it, you know.'

Ford said, 'I can't, Wendy. I'm in a hurry,' after repressing the urge to say 'Maybe another time—when I'm feeling real dirty.'

He was glad he didn't say it. As he opened the door, she was sitting on the couch four rums gone, knees together, arms pressed over her breasts, and she said in the voice of a dazed little girl, 'I'm not pretty anymore, am I, Marion?' Crying, too, but not making any noise; looking straight ahead, her eyes glassy.

Ford set the satchel on the steps, went to her, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. 'It's time for you to go home, Wendy. You should take that money and buy a ticket home.'

'They'd never take me now, Marion. On the phone Daddy said—'

'On the phone is one thing, Wendy. He can't look into your face and refuse you.'

'Do you think so, Marion? Really?'

'I want you to call tonight, Wendy. Will you do that?'

She had still made no reply when he closed the door behind him.

Tomlinson was calling 'What? What? Who is it, man?'

And Ford, standing outside Tomlinson's room, said, 'Let's go. It's time to get going.'

'It's morning already, man?'

'Close enough.'

Tomlinson swung the door open. He was wearing salmon-colored long johns—long johns? Yep—standing there with his scraggly hair and beard, digging a fist into his eyes. 'Christ, Doc, it's still dark outside.'

It was just after midnight, 12:08 A.M.

'You know what they say: Early bird gets the worm.'

'Feels like I just went to sleep.'

Ford said, 'I've got the Land Cruiser all loaded. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.'

'Far out, man. Far out. Up with the farmers. ...'

TWELVE

On a rhumb line it was 150 miles to the border of Masagua, but the mountain roads of Costa Rica, though they were good roads, followed no line. They followed rivers through the high cloud forests, and Ford drove while Tomlinson slept beside him, the lights of the vehicle tunneling through fog into the darkness. After three hours the terrain began to change. The rain forest began to draw in, thicken, and the road narrowed, like driving through a cave. He had to use the wipers to clear the windshield of condensation and, with the windows down, he could smell the cool hollows and the tannin-stained rivers. He could smell the jungle and knew Masagua was near.

Then there was a sign that said it was ten kilometers to the border station, and Ford slowed until he found an old logging trail and turned off the road, bouncing and jolting. He shut off the engine and pushed the door open so that the dome light was on. The chirring of frogs was like one long scream in the darkness.

Tomlinson stirred, awakening slowly.

Ford reached into the backseat and unzipped the leather satchel. He took out the forty-five-caliber automatic and waited. He waited until he was sure Tomlinson was awake, then he punched in a clip, slid the breach back, and watched Tomlinson's eyes flutter and finally open wide, seeing the pistol.

'Holy shit!'

'Take it easy.'

'What's with the gun, man? There fucking tigers around here or something? Restless natives?'

Ford said, 'We need to have a talk, Tomlinson.'

'Talk, yeah, sure.' Getting as far from Ford as he could, his back against the door, not frightened but nervous with a pistol between them in the narrow confines of the Land Cruiser. And trying hard to wake up quickly. 'Christ, watch it, that thing could go off. You got bullets in there?'

'Just seven. The border guards are up ahead. About six miles.'

'Border guards ... I thought we were going to bribe the bastards. Hey, Doc, I got to be frank—I don't like this gun business. And bullets, too. Guns give me the heebie jeebies.'