Sanibel Flats

Judging from the magazines strewn around the floor, a brothel was closer to being what the room was used for. Tomlinson considered one of the magazines for a moment, then kicked it closed with his foot, a grimace of distaste on his face.

From somewhere a radio blared loud Latin music and on the long dining table were liquor bottles and smoldering ashtrays. Several of the bottles had been overturned and the gray carpeting below was stained. There were also two small bowls filled with fine white powder on the table. One of those had spilled, too, covering the table like talcum. Ford saw all of this peripherally, for the men who lay on the floor dominated the wreckage in the room.

It had been a party some would not live to remember. There were six men—no, seven. They wore only pants or were naked. Some sat staring blankly at the wall, trying to breathe over their thick, distended tongues. Others writhed on the carpeting in their own vomitus: eerie, contorted figures in the flickering light. Others lay deathly still, their knees pulled toward their chests, their eyes opened and fixed, but still breathing. Ford recognized Suarez as one of those still alive. He was on his knees, salivating uncontrollably. Only one uniformed soldier tended the men, wiping them with cloths. The others, apparently, had fled.

Ford asked, 'Are the medical supplies in here?' Zacul, taken by another spasm, pointed at a box on the wall. As Tomlinson helped lift the box off its brackets, Ford whispered, 'Start looking for Jake. He's got to be around here somewhere. And grab a weapon if you get the chance. '

'No guns, Doc. Sorry, but no way.'

'Goddamn it, Tomlinson—' But the man was already gone, rushing off to search the building.

Ford put the box on the table, unlatched it, saying to Zacul in a louder voice 'It looks like you guys got hold of some bad cocaine, General.'

'Yes, yes, that's possible. Is there something for the pain? I can't stand the pain anymore.'

Ford went through the supplies quickly. 'There's no medicine in here, this is a first aid kit. I can't do anything with this.'

Zacul yelled to the lone soldier who soon returned with an even bigger metal box. Ford put it on the table and opened it. The kit was Soviet issue, labeled in several languages and very well equipped. The drugs were packaged in groups according to specific need: shock, bacterial disease, cardiac arrest, field anesthesiology. Ford opened three of the anesthesiology packages, separated the syringe kits, and placed six vials of atropine sulfate on the table. He hesitated, then took out one vial of normal saline solution. 'There are things here that'll make you feel better, General, but I don't know how to treat for cocaine overdose. I'm going to need help for that.'

Zacul groaned again.

'Is there a doctor in Tambor?'

'No.'

'Is there a phone in Tambor? A place I can call a hospital and get some advice on how to treat you?'

'Yes! That is what we must do. Go to Tambor!' Zacul was hunched on the carpet, his head between his knees.

Ford was drawing saline solution into one of the syringes, holding it up to the light. 'Is there someone around who can fly those helicopters?'

'The Cuban, Arevilio. He is our trainer. The others are away in the city.'

'Tell someone to find him. '

Zacul called to the soldier again, demanding that he bring Arevilio immediately. But the soldier shook his head and pointed to a motionless figure on the floor. The Cuban appeared to already be dead.

Ford said, 'I'm going to have to drive you. We'll need a truck and I'm going to need someone else who speaks English. If I get an American doctor on the phone, someone is going to have to ask him questions while Tomlinson and I work on you and your officers.'

'There is Colonel Suarez—' *

'Suarez is sick, too.' Talking as he loaded the other syringes with atropine sulfate, Ford then injected the saline solution into Zacul's arm.

The saline solution was a placebo; it would have no effect. Atropine sulfate was the antidote.

Zacul was coughing, rubbing his arm. 'Is it so necessary? I'm too sick to think. Why do you make these demands!'

Ford said, 'It's necessary unless you want to die. Someone else who speaks English.'

When Zacul only groaned in reply, Ford finally just came out and said it: 'What about the little American boy who was in the stockade?'

Zacul raised himself to his knees and seemed to focus for a moment. 'What?'

'The boy, Jake Hollins—where is he?'

Through the bleary eyes came a sharp look, and he asked, 'How did you know he was no longer in the stockade?' and Ford realized he had stumbled badly.

'I thought I saw Colonel Suarez release him.'

Zacul said, 'Yes, of course—the boy could help,' speaking very carefully, in a way that made Ford uneasy. 'He's here. In my quarters—there, with the hippie now.'

Tomlinson, looking grim, was leading Jake Hollins by the hand. The boy had been bathed, his clothes washed, and he looked very small walking beside Tomlinson. His chin was down, like a shy child at a circus, and his head moved timidly as he took in the chaos around him. Ford knelt, touched the boy's arm, and the boy looked up at him and said, 'Whelp, that lil* house of ours got wrecked again,' with a southern accent that was nice to hear after so much Spanish.

Ford said, 'We'll build a better one,' before glancing at Tomlinson. 'Is he okay?'

Tomlinson was glaring at Zacul, his face pointed, really angry. 'You're a good argument for euthanasia, you know that, Zacul—' But, before he'd even finished the sentence, Zacul had grabbed the boy, holding him by the throat, his pistol out, barrel pressed against the child's head.

'This is what you came for, isn't it? I don't know why I didn't see it before!' Then he was on his feet, still holding the boy, eyes glazed but lucid enough to say 'You're not going to leave me here. If you make any move against me, I'll shoot the boy. You are going to take me to Tambor. You are going to find help for me—' talking in surges between deep gulps of air while the boy, already crying, called to Ford, 'I don't like this man! Make him let go!'

Ford had his arms out, holding Tomlinson back, and when Tomlinson tried to call out, 'But you've already been given the antidote—' Ford drove his elbow backward and heard Tomlinson gasp with pain. If Zacul found out Ford knew the antidote, they'd all soon be dead.

Ford said, 'Okay, Zacul. We'll take you to Tambor. Just don't hurt the kid.'

TWENTY

Soldiers were running. Ford couldn't figure out why. They were running through the mud in the moonlight, glancing over their shoulders as if something were chasing them. Some of them were shooting, too, firing wildly toward the road that led to Tambor.

Ford had been standing on the porch. His glasses were fogged from the smoke inside and he cleaned them on his shirt, trying to see what it was the soldiers were running from. But when the shooting started, he dropped to the ground, as did Zacul. 'What in the hell's going on here?'

Zacul just groaned and held tight to the boy. He was having trouble breathing. His tongue was so swollen that it was difficult for him to speak. When he did speak, it was in a ranting Spanish—part delirium, part fear—but his pistol never wavered.

Now Ford could hear more shooting, like strings of firecrackers popping in the distance. Then there were three explosions in quick succession, each closer than the other, the last hitting a fiberglass hut not far from the stockade. The explosion shook the ground and threw Roman candle streamers through a roiling ball of white smoke into the high trees. There was a momentary pause, then another explosion that whuffed as if drawing air before several fuel tanks ignited in an orb of white fire that crackled in the wet leaves behind the compound.

Through the smoke came more soldiers, more of Zacul's troops. They were yelling: some in pain but most out of fear.

They weren't just running, they were fleeing; trying to escape this unseen force coming from the road to