A King's ransom

Vice, the one in the skimpy bikini whose board is knifing through the water at thirty miles an hour when she arches that incredible body, throws her head back, soaks her long blond hair in the bay, and keeps right on going. The bay was a great escape from school, the world, the hassles of being a teenager-and from my father. Finding my own passion on the water was a convenient way of telling him that the disastrous fishing trip we’d taken together was going to be our first and last. At age twelve I’d seen a side of him that I never wanted to see again. So I decided I’d never be alone with him again, at least not in a setting where he was not just my father but the captain of the ship. A drunken captain of the ship.

Seeing him that way had been bad enough. What he’d done that day changed us forever.

As I packed my equipment back onto my Jeep, I realized that the old wounds were very much a part of the pain and personal strife that had been brought on by the kidnapping.

“Lemonade, friend?”

I turned at the sound of the man’s voice. It was Nate, a cheery old guy who in the past twenty years had peddled his frozen lemonade cart up and down the bicycle path enough times to circle the globe. Business today was so slow that he couldn’t break a twenty, so I let him keep the change. That was only fair. He didn’t recognize me, but J. C. and I probably owed him at least a hundred bucks for all the frozen lemonades he’d let us put on our tab.

I climbed into my Jeep and was about to start the engine when another voice startled me.

“Can we talk, Nick?”

He was right beside my Jeep, but with the sun shining directly in my eyes I wasn’t a hundred percent sure on the ID. “Agent Nettles?” I said, squinting.

“In the flesh.”

Nettles had been the initial FBI agent assigned to my father’s case. I hadn’t heard from him since the narcotics arm of the FBI had seemingly taken over. “What’s there to talk about?”

“Your father’s case, of course.”

I released the parking brake, letting him know that I was leaving. “Look, you were much nicer than the drug agents who interrogated me, but I’m giving you the same answer I gave them. I think it’s wrong for the FBI to tell me they won’t help my father unless I play spy and help your narcotics agents pin some unspecified crime on his business partner.”

“I agree with you.”

That took me by surprise. “Then why did Agent Hard-Ass give me the ‘come to Jesus’ speech?”

“Not every cowboy who thinks he talks for the entire FBI actually talks for the entire FBI.”

“Are you saying that the FBI is now willing to help, no conditions?”

“When your father comes home, you can bet that Agent Huitt will have a good long talk with him. But it’s my job to get him home, regardless of whether you or anyone else in your family agrees to cooperate in any future investigation against anyone.”

“Why the sudden reversal?”

“Let’s just say there was an internal disagreement. We finally straightened it out.”

“Or maybe it’s just the old good-cop/bad-cop strategy. I wouldn’t bow to threats from Agent Huitt, so you politely insinuate yourself back into the kidnapping negotiations, work closely with our family, and snoop around while you’re at it.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“What choice do you have?”

We locked eyes for a moment, until the sun shining behind him finally forced me to look away. If I hadn’t had Alex in my camp, I might have jumped at the offer. But I had to remember that this was the same guy who’d stonewalled me when the FBI had “declined” the State Department’s invitation to work on my father’s kidnapping.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, then started up my Jeep and drove away.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at my house in Coconut Grove, then headed over to my mother’s for dinner. Since the kidnapping, I’d made a point of dropping by at least once a day to see her, and tonight she was in the mood to cook. Hearts of palm salad and grilled salmon with dill sauce beat the heck out of a cold bologna sandwich, so who was I to stop her?

I let myself in and found a note on the refrigerator saying that she was at the grocery store. Mom was a great cook but not a great planner. It seemed that no meal was complete without an emergency run to Gardner’s Market for some missing ingredient. I helped myself to a soda, flopped on the couch with the newspaper, and turned straight to the “Americas” section of the Miami Herald. Before the kidnapping I used to skim right past it, but now I had a keen interest in the Colombian Army’s latest clash with guerrillas or the most recent bombing by paramilitary forces.

I heard Mom’s car pull up, the dull thud of a closing car door, the click of her heels coming up the sidewalk. It sounded as if she were running. The front door flew open. She burst inside and slammed it shut. I turned to see her with her back against door, clutching her bag of groceries.

“Someone followed me home,” she said in a nervous voice.

“What?”

She quickly headed for the kitchen. I followed. Her hands were shaking as she dropped the bag of groceries on the counter.

“A man in a blue car. I swear, he tailed me all the way from Gardner’s.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. Never saw him before.”

I had a quick thought. “Could it have been Agent Nettles from the FBI?”

“No. This man was white.”

Could have been Huitt, but in her state of near panic, now wasn’t the time to tell her about the bullies in the FBI’s narcotics squad. “Is he still out there?”

“I don’t know. I ran inside.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“I can’t say. Maybe a Ford. Do you think it could be a messenger for the kidnappers?”

Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door.

“Don’t answer it!” my mother said.

For thirty seconds we didn’t move. Another knock followed, harder this time. I looked at Mom and said, “Wait here.”

“Nick, no.”

I walked to the window and pulled the drapes away from the window frame only far enough to peer out. A blue Ford was parked across the street. Just the sight of it had my blood boiling-the nerve of this creep to follow my mother home. My dad had a Smith amp; Wesson revolver in the bedroom, but I had a sense that the ax handle he’d always kept hanging behind the refrigerator might set a more proper tone.

“Call the police,” I said.

She picked up the phone. I grabbed the ax handle and started for the back door.

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t just open the door and let him in. I’ll walk around to the front and confront him.”

“Please, wait for the police.”

“How dangerous can he be? He rang the doorbell.”

“So did the Boston Strangler.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Over my mother’s pleas I opened the door and stepped out, ax handle gripped firmly. I hurried across the back patio, turned at the corner of the house, headed up the side yard, and stopped at the front of the garage. From there I could see the Ford across the street. I could hear it, too. The motor was running. I took another step forward and looked across our front lawn. A short guy in a baseball cap was standing on our front porch. He was smaller than me, a good thing. I approached with as much bravado as I could muster and stopped at the base of the steps.

“What do you want?” I asked pointedly.