A King's ransom

weren’t the gigantic ones from deep, cold waters off Venezuela that made such beautiful shrimp cocktails, but they were of good size for the Mosquito Coast. They tasted so fresh, and as the son of a fisherman I knew why. They were fresh-frozen, which sounds like an oxymoron, but Americans eat far more fresh-frozen seafood than they realize. Restaurant patrons in New York, Chicago, or Boston would never guess that when their snooty waiter assures them that today’s snapper is “fresh,” he really means “fresh-frozen”-as in fresh when it was caught, frozen in the boat on its way to the dock, thawed for processing at the plant, refrozen for shipment, thawed again when it was sold, and therefore “fresh” when it finally lands on a dinner plate. Unappetizing as all that sounds, if it weren’t frozen at various stages of the long journey from Nicaragua to your plate, that delicious grilled whitefish drizzled with mango butter would taste like whale dung and smell even worse.

Of course, Mom just picked at her dinner, wondering if Dad had anything to eat. Honestly, I hadn’t seen her sit down and eat a real meal in almost a day and a half.

“Any leads on Lindsey?” she asked.

My sister was still missing, which by itself wasn’t alarming. She traveled with no itinerary in pursuit of her journalistic pipe dream. With one member of the family kidnapped, however, it would have been nice to be able to account for her.

“This afternoon I spent an hour calling people I thought she might stay in touch with. Some of them seemed to think she was in Costa Rica, a couple others said in Guatemala. It’s all hearsay. I just can’t find anyone who’s talked to her recently.”

Mom was about to say something, then slipped back into her thoughts, pushing her food around. The plate was still full. Mine was empty.

“You should eat something,” I said.

“I can’t.”

“It won’t do any good to starve yourself.”

“This tomato sauce is kind of nauseating.”

“As co-chef, I take serious exception.”

“Sorry. I’m just not hungry. I’ve been nibbling since five o’clock this morning.”

I did seem to recall predawn noises in the kitchen. It was all part of the screwed-up pattern. A little reading at midnight. Letter writing till 2:00 A.M. Housecleaning at three, and organizing the closets at four. Neither of us was sleeping well, but Mom was especially affected. She was accustomed to nights alone while Dad traveled for work. This time was different, however, her lying awake in the lonely king-size bed wondering if that empty space beside her might be permanent.

“Have you talked to Jenna?” she asked.

That seemed out of the blue. Mom and I hadn’t talked about her since I’d gotten back my engagement ring and washed a dollop of seagull droppings out of my hair. “No, I haven’t.”

“I noticed her name wasn’t on your list of people to call.”

“That’s because she’s my ex-fiancee.”

“Don’t be like that. She and your father were very fond of one another.”

“I know. But I’d rather just not deal with her right now.”

“Your father could use all the prayers he can get.”

Mom certainly had a way of backing me into a corner. “You’re right. I’ll drop her a line or something.”

The phone rang as we were clearing the table. Mom answered, and her eyes lit up. It was Dad’s Nicaraguan business partner, Guillermo, calling from Cartagena. He’d gone down to make funeral arrangements for the dead crewmen, arrange for transportation back to Nicaragua for the two they’d found alive so far, and generally to check on the company’s newly acquired boats that were now riddled with bullet holes.

I picked up the phone in the family room. Mom remained on the line in the kitchen.

“Any news?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said with excitement. “Police have found one of the missing.”

“Could it be Matthew?” Mom shrieked.

My heart was pounding right along with hers.

“No, no. It’s Carlos, one of the welders who was missing. The third crewman.”

I watched through the open doorway as Mom nearly collapsed in disappointment. I asked, “Is he okay?”

“Tired, but okay. These Miskitos are unbelievable. He swam for hours and finally hid in some mangroves along the coast. He was there for almost two days, afraid to come out. Finally he walked into town and found the police station.”

“Does he have any information about Matthew?” Mom asked.

“Yes. It’s good news, I think.”

“You think?” I asked tentatively.

“He saw the guerrillas pull Matthew from the water.”

“Alive?”

“Yes, alive.”

I glanced across the room toward Mom. She was sitting down, her elbow on the kitchen table as she dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “That’s good,” I said. “At least he’s alive.”

“Yes. That part is good,” he said.

I sensed there was bad news to go with it, and I worried whether Mom should hear it. Guillermo forged ahead without my encouragement.

“He says the guerrillas took Matthew away by boat. They were shouting, vowing to avenge the death of their friend with la mina.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the guerrilla who got shot and killed in the exchange of gunfire on the shrimp boat.”

“I understood that part. I meant ‘la mina,’ what’s that?”

“Your father. The gold mine.”

My heart sank. Apart from Dad’s safety, that was my biggest fear: the kidnappers’ inflated expectations.

“Have you talked to the Colombian police yet?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s where I am now. They’re writing down Carlos’s statement as we speak.”

“Maybe I should fly down and speak to them myself.”

“Probably not a good idea. From what the officer tells me, you will likely receive a communication from the kidnappers in the very near future. It wouldn’t seem right to leave Cathy alone to handle that.”

I took another glance toward the kitchen. Mom had the phone to her ear. I knew she was listening. But she was now too overcome to respond.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll stay put. But let me talk with one of the officers on the case. I just want to introduce myself.”

“How’s your Spanish?”

“Pretty good. Not perfect.”

“Hold on. Let me try to find someone who can speak to you in English.”

I heard muted conversations on the line, the sounds of a busy office in the background, followed by a click. I saw that my mother had hung up. She was walking briskly toward the bedroom, another so-called allergy attack from which she’d emerge with red and puffy eyes. I felt a few pangs of pity for her, but they were mostly crowded out by my anger toward those murderers who’d dubbed my father a gold mine.

A man came on the line, speaking English with a heavy Spanish accent. “Hello, this is Officer Trujillo speaking.”

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, officer. As you can imagine, my family is very concerned-”

“Claro,” he said, then caught himself and continued in English. It was about as good as my Spanish. “I understand complete. Please know that we do everything possibly to bring your father safe. Judicial Police has twell hundred officers working kidnap cases.”

“That sounds very good.”

“Si. Is very good. We all have much experience.”

“Can you tell me anything about my father? Do you know if he is safe?”

“Not for sure. But is muy importante to know most kidnaps in Colombia end with